


The Dark Side of the Moon

by GoddessofBirth



Series: Crossfire [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Canon Compliant, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pack Dynamics, Past Relationship(s), Peter mentally in a pre-fire headspace, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Romance, Torture, also, but it's pretty minor, conflicted Chris, okay the Stiles/Isaac is just blatant not implied anymore, slight implied Stiles/Isaac, sorry about that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 05:18:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The alpha pack strips away Peter's memory, and Chris makes the mercenary decision to shelter him.  The lines between past and present, enemies and friends, and lovers and unwilling allies begins to blur, and it's anyone's guess who will emerge as the winner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter will alternate viewpoints between Peter and Chris. Also, warning for OOC Peter in the beginning, I guess, or at least OOC for who he is currently. La la la la la...I REGRET NOTHING. Face cast for young!Chris is Jeremy Sumpter. Specifically Jeremy Sumpter from his Troix photoshoot, in boots and black tanks and smoking cigarettes and oh wow I just made my ovaries explode.

When Peter wakes up in the woods, he immediately knows something is off. He doesn't know what time of day it is, but more importantly, he has no idea how he got here. The back of his neck stings. He touches it, and when he pulls his hand away, it's smeared with sticky wet blood, blood that, by the smell, is still sluggishly flowing.

 

Only an alpha would cause that, but try as he might, he can't remember doing anything that would piss his older brother off enough to require a friendly scuffle, the incident with the cat and the oil can last week not withstanding. But the kids had giggled over that for hours, so it was definitely worth it.

 

He's...disoriented, just a little. Just enough that he can't quite pinpoint his location. He considers howling for the pack, but not only would Nathan laugh at him for a week, but there really _aren't_ any wolves in California these days, and howling is generally kept to emergency situations. His head will clear soon enough, and in the meantime his nose is still functioning perfectly.

 

He takes a deep breath and then freezes. The breeze is carrying a scent he instantly recognizes – of _course_ he recognizes it, would know it anywhere – but he hasn't smelled it in ages, and it shouldn't be here. Should be _anywhere_ but here. There's a crackling in the underbrush, and he whirls on his heels, claws half extended, just in time to see Chris Argent slip into the clearing.

 

For a minute, Peter's brain blanks, because Chris is _different_. It's not entirely unexpected; after all, it's been close to twenty years. They're men now, not boys, but it's more than that. Chris looks hard, and he's carrying a gun in one hand and has another strapped in a thigh holster, and he's looking at Peter with a look he's never seen Chris direct at him before. He thinks it might be loathing.

 

It's another snap of twigs that jerks him out of his reverie – a deer a hundred yards off, his mind helpfully supplies half a second later – and he hisses out low, mindful that Pack could be here any minute.

 

“What the hell are you doing here, Chris? This is Hale territory.” He may not know exactly how he got here, but he knows the scent of home. “And I can't imagine Gerard's any less forgiving these days than he was twenty years ago.”

 

Chris blinks, and then his expression morphs through exasperation, to disappointment, to resignation. “Cute, Peter. Really. But we don't have time for this. Save your mind fucks for when we're not at war and two steps away from being slaughtered. I'd think you'd at least care about your own neck enough to stop with the games for the time being. Did you find Allison?”

 

Peter stares at him blankly, recognizing neither the name, nor why he should be looking for her. Chris face darkens.

 

“My. Daughter. Did you. Find. Allison.”

 

Peter laughs, if only because the idea of Chris as a parent is _hilarious_. “You have a daughter?”

 

If it weren't _Chris_ , Peter might be concerned about the way he bares his teeth angrily, but as it is, it only raises a slight hint of instinctive alarm, enough to make the wolf raise its head, take note. Chris had always had an angry edge, but this is approaching cold rage. Chris jerks a phone from his pocket and mutters under his breath, but Peter can still hear just fine.

 

“Derek can babysit if he wants you coming back as anything but a well dressed corpse.”

 

Please. Peter would leave a _gorgeous_ corpse. But the mention of Derek triggers his memory, which outweighs the confusion as to how Chris would know anything about his nephew. He glances at his watch. “Shit.” He feels around for his phone, but _of course_ it's gone, because that's just the kind of day it's turning out to be. “I'm late picking Derek up from swim practice. Although -” he smirks conspiratorially at Chris, “-he probably wouldn't mind. He hasn't told me yet, but I think he's met a girl. About time, too. I was beginning to think the only things he was attracted to were baseball and swimming and his comic books.”

 

But instead of looking properly amused at the idea of a fifteen year old with his first crush, Chris's face goes completely blank and he takes a step back. Then he says, very carefully -

 

“Peter, what's the year?”

 

His head must really have been scrambled, because it takes this long for Chris's cryptic comments about _war_ and _slaughter_ to sink in.

 

“Something's wrong, isn't it?”

 

The blankness of Chris's face is giving way to something incredulous, and maybe a bit horrified. “Just answer the question, Peter.”

 

Fine. The whole Q&A is becoming tiresome, anyway. “2005. Which you should know. Are you sure _you_ didn't hit your head at some point today?”

 

Chris spits out a _fuck_. And then _fuck_ , again, before shifting his gun from one hand to the other and running his fingers through his hair. “What happened earlier?”

 

“What's going on, Chris?” Chris's stress is leaking off of him, and the instinct to go to him, try to comfort him, is strong. But they're not teenagers anymore, and he has no idea why Chris is here, or why he's looking at him like he's the combination of a ghost and a nightmare.

 

“Earlier, Peter. What happened?”

 

He hopes his eye roll accurately conveys his exasperation with Chris's non-answers. “Woke up. Breakfast. Julia's pregnant again – they haven't told the kids yet, not since she lost the last pup – and Nathan is hovering as usual, so I dropped the kids at school. Coffee at Hanison's. They still have those disgusting cupcakes, you know. And then -”

 

He stops abruptly, because he... “Then I was here.” As if in response, the back of his neck twinges again, and scratches at it, frowning when his fingers still come away bloody. When Chris sees the blood, he moves quicker than Peter remembers, is standing next to him and fisting his hand in Peter's hair. He yanks his head down to expose the back of his neck. Whatever he sees makes him curse again.

 

“Goddammit!”

 

Peter doesn't get a chance to ask, because there's a howl, off to the right. One he doesn't recognize. Chris stiffens and jerks his hand back from Peter's hair, uses it to unholster his other weapon.

 

“We need to move. Now.”

 

“Chris, what -” Another howl sounds, to the left. They're calling to each other. Sounding out a hunt.

 

“ _Now_!” Chris roars, and takes off. And because it's Chris, Peter follows. Chris isn't even attempting to be quiet, apparently more concerned with speed than stealth. They run for a mile, maybe two. The howls continue, sporadic, but they're falling further behind, and Chris uses precious air to speak.

 

“You must have gotten away from them. They don't know where to look.”

 

The amount of information Chris has, that Peter obviously doesn't, is starting to piss him off, but he can appreciate the urgency in Chris's movements, and so he keeps his mouth shut and follows Chris another half mile or so through the forest, and then they're bursting through a clearing with a small cabin. Which...he also doesn't remember ever being on their territory.

 

Chris seems to breathe easier once they're inside, and he points Peter to a chair. “Sit. I'll be right back.” He grabs a mason jar from a cabinet and leaves before Peter can argue, but he can hear him moving around the parameter of the cabin. Barely two minutes pass before he's back, the jar now empty. At Peter's look, he explains, “Powdered cougar's blood. Makes it smell less like...us.”

 

Peter stands, paces across the room toward Chris, and tries not to feel upset that Chris doesn't even try to hid the fact that he steps back to put the small kitchen table between them.

 

“Enough, Chris. Time to fill the rest of the class in. Where are we? Who is that out there?”

 

Chris has gotten much better at hiding his emotions in the intervening years, but Peter was once an expert in Chris, so it's fairly easy to see he's struggling with himself. Peter waits. He's nothing if not patient. Always has been. Finally Chris shrugs, and it's then Peter realizes he's still loosely holding the gun in one hand, safety off.

 

“This is one of our safe houses.”

 

Peter shakes his head and snorts. “The Argents don't have safe houses on Hale land. Try again.”

 

“Things have...happened. The Hale territory isn't quite what it was.”

 

“I'm pretty sure it hasn't changed that much since I had breakfast.”

 

“Hmm.” Chris's smile is small, and utterly humorless. “Considering the breakfast you're thinking of was about six years ago, give or take, I think you'll have to accept the possibility.”

 

“ _Bullshit,_ ” he spits out.

 

Chris shakes his head, rolling his phone around in his spare hand, dialing a number, only to erase it and start the whole thing over again. “No bullshit, Pete. And right now, we're all kind of fighting for our lives.”

 

His phone trills loud in the silence that follows, and while Peter can't quite hear the other side, he listens intently to Chris's end.

 

“Argent. Yeah. She's okay then? Take her to Scott's. I'll be there in a bit. I've got....” He shoots a look at Peter and the lines around his mouth tighten. “Something came up. Yeah. We need to regroup. Yeah. Yeah. At the house. Okay.” He hangs up and resumes the earlier conversation as if there hadn't been a break in it.

 

“An Alpha pack is trying to gain control. Allison and I are lending a hand to beat it back.”

 

Peter holds out his hand. “Your phone. I need to call Nath -”

 

“Derek. Derek is your alpha now.”

 

That makes no sense whatsoever. As little sense as the Argents working with the Hales, although that's a bit more reasonable if Chris is the patriarch now. Even if something had happened to Nathan, Laura would have been the natural successor. Derek is a born beta. The only way he could ascend to alpha would be if -

 

Chris is watching him closely, so Peter has no doubt he sees the color disappear from his face. “What happened here? What am I missing?”

 

Chris slowly walks the length of the kitchen and back again, tapping his fingers across the counters. “Your neck. If an Alpha can implant memories, I'm going to assume they can take them, too. But I'm guessing for only as long as it takes you to heal. I'm not sure what forcing the issue will do, and we can't afford to have you out of commission. Right now, you're the only person besides me who has fuck all idea of what you're doing, so even if you are a ps...are going to be down for a few days, it's better than doing something that makes you delusional. Which has happened to some of the kids.”

 

He's telling the truth, but he's lying, too. Or, more likely, leaving things out. “Then I should find Derek. If the kid is our alpha now, I should be with him. He needs pack around him.”

 

The force with which Chris is pinching the bridge of his nose is turning the pads of his fingers white. “I don't...I don't think that would be a good idea right now.”

 

“And why not, Chris? You're going to have to give me a little more to go on than that. He's my nephew.”

 

Laughter barks out of Chris, sharp and dark and flavored with something Peter can't even begin to translate, but his smell has shifted, deep notes of acrid ash polluting it. “That actually means something to you, doesn't it?”

 

“Of course it does. Pack is family, and family is pack. Come on, Chris, I know we actually had this conversation once. How many times have you been hit on the head, since, that you've forgotten it.”

 

Chris just stares at him and shakes his head. “Jesus, this is a clusterfuck.”

 

Peter's frustration has reached levels such that he's afraid his eyes are starting to turn. Chris should know that Peter hates having only a partial picture, more than any damn thing. He thrives on knowledge; it's the reason he's responsible for the pack's archives. “Chris-” he bites it out with just a hint of a growl.

 

“I should just dump you right off on...” He clenches the edge of the counter, and a piece of cheap formica breaks off. “Let me clear this up for you. You and your _nephew_ are not on the best of terms. _No one_ in the town is on the best of terms. We are fighting tooth and nail just to survive, your family is not here to help you, and right now this is the safest place for you to be.”

 

He nods, because it makes a kind of sense. “Because you're here.”

 

“No! Not because -” The grinding of Chris's teeth makes Peter's skin crawl. “No. Because you're not yourself. And the less people who know that, the better.”

 

“Why? Exactly.”

 

If Chris mangles his hair anymore than he already has, he's going to start losing it, and that would be real shame. Even though he's cropped it far closer than he used to, it's still too nice to ruin. “Stop that!” He smacks at Chris's hand.

 

Chris blinks, his face going blank again, and when his expression comes back, it's the one that looks like he's been sucking on lemons all day. “Look, Pete. You still trust me, right?” The words come out reluctant, and Chris's eyes shift from his, to the counter, back to his again, but his heartbeat stays steady.

 

Peter smirks. “Of course. Unbroken and safe, right?” Something about the words sound completely wrong when he hears them, but he can't pinpoint exactly where the wrongness lies.

 

“Yeah,” Chris nods, and finally puts the gun down. “Unbroken and safe. So trust me on this one, okay? Two, three days tops, you can fill in the blanks yourself. But until then, just stay here. If we need you, I promise I'll let you know.”

 

“If Derek -”

 

“If Derek needs you, I promise I'll let you know.”

 

Peter pretends to consider, but in reality, there was never any question. “Fine, but you owe me.”

 

The same humorless laugh escapes from Chris's mouth, and Peter wonders what happened to him that made him so bitter. “Oh, I'm sure we'll settle up all kinds of debts eventually.”

 

Chris shoves away from the counter and nods toward the bathroom. “Let's get those claw marks cleaned. God knows the last thing we need is for infection to set in.”


	2. Chapter 2

Peter takes off his jacket and places it on the lid of the small washer that takes up most of the tiny space, the muscles in his back and chest flexing at the motion. It's with a start that Chris realizes that in the three months or so since Peter's untimely resurrection, he's never seen Peter in short sleeves. It's always either the jacket, or a Henley, even during the hot months of summer, which means the last time he saw Peter like this was...too many years to count.

Chris purposely does not keep count.

The flesh of Peter's arms is tan, and smooth, and far more muscular than the skinny teenager still waiting for his DNA to kick in. He doesn't know why he's surprised to see the tattoo still there, crawling its way up the inside of his upper arm, except maybe he'd assumed the fire had burnt it away, like it had singed away Peter's sanity. The stark Gothic lettering remains, though, and Chris' fingertips itch. Fragments of a decades old conversation whisper through his brain.

_We're underage, Chis. Nobody's gonna do it anyway._

_Uh uh, I know this guy, down in Dentsville, said he'd do it..._

Then he's forcefully yanked from his unrequested trip down memory lane when Peter sits down on the closed toilet, his back to Chris, and bows his head, baring his neck. If he had had any doubts about the veracity of Peter's amnesia, this dispelled them with finality. Peter would know better than to ever turn his back on Chris. His fingertips itch again, but for entirely different reasons.

There's a knife strapped to his ankle; he could slit Peter's throat in a matter of seconds. Or hell, he could probably walk out to the kitchen, pick his gun off the counter, put it to the back of Peter's head and pull the trigger. This Peter would never suspect it was coming, not until it was too late.

He would be completely justified. Peter is the very definition of rabid, and Chris has ignored the Code for months now in this war, let Peter continue to breathe air when he should have been put back down the instant he resurrected himself via mind-raping a seventeen year old girl. If Chris doesn't want to dirty his hands, he can just dump Peter off on Derek. He's seen the way the kid looks at his uncle. Nothing has been forgiven. The only reason Derek hasn't tried to kill Peter again is because he knows Peter expects it, is waiting on it. There's no guarantee Derek would emerge the winner.

But Peter like this? Easy prey.

Chris doesn't take any of these options. Instead, he grabs a cotton ball, and a bottle of iodine. Because as bitter a pill as it is, he wasn't kidding when he said they were at war. And Peter is the only other person in their screwed up band of misfits who understands the nature of war, who knows how to fight a battle and win. And even his psychosis brings benefits to the table; he's able to see less savory paths than Chris can, just like Chris can map out solutions that will minimize their loses where Peter would just choose body count.

For that reason and that reason alone, Chris will ensure Peter survives this. Keep him hidden from both Alpha pack and his own Alpha, until he can fend for himself again. Then all bets will be off.

For that reason alone.

He starts daubing at the claw marks on Peter's neck, ignoring Peter's hiss as the antiseptic seeps into the deepest punctures. There are four pairs of them, each stacked neatly above the other, careful and deliberate. The alphas knew what they were doing, and Chris will have to find some way to pass the information along without revealing what happened to Peter. It's too dangerous to hold it, even for the two or three days it will take Peter to recover.

“You said you had a daughter?”

Peter's voice breaks through his reverie, the edge of his voice curled in an amusement without poisoned knives or arrows or claws curled in a nasty mockery.

_Please tell me you're joking. The only person who should bleach their hair is Billy Idol._

Chris hands remain steady as he pushes Peter's head down a little farther, to get a better angle at the wounds just under his hairline.

“I do. Allison. She's eighteen now.” He has to give Peter something, otherwise he'll never be able to hold him here, regardless. The need to know had always been an unscratchable itch in Peter.

“I don't know why that surprises me.” Peter's voice is muffled from the angle. “You were always so good with Katie -”

The bottle of disinfectant slips from Chris' hand and crashes to the floor, its contents spilling violently in a wide arc across the room.

“Chris?” Peter jerks and turns and starts to rise, and Chris places a hand on his shoulder to still him.

“It's fine. I've got it.” There are still towels under the sink from the last time the cabin was used; he pulls one out and mops up the mess. By the time he tosses it in the laundry bin, his hands are as steady as they've ever been. Neosporin uncaps easily, and he uses his fingers to smear it thickly down Peter's neck.

“When did you come back to Beacon Hills?” This would be so much easier if Peter would keep his mouth shut. If Chris could _tell_ him to shut the fuck up. Instead he continues to spread ointment, switching to his thumb to better get into the curve under Peter's ear, and answers.

“A little over a year.”

“Why? Nathan thought you were gone for good; it's the only reason he moved the pack back.”

He tears the bandage packaging open with his teeth, spitting paper into the trash. The first gauze pad only covers half of the area, and he rips off a long strand of medical tape to fasten it into place. “There was a rogue Alpha. Killing people.”

“Did you get him?”

Charred flesh is a smell that never really leaves you. “Some kids with a Moltov cocktail did a pretty good job.” Only not good enough, it turned out.

The skin pressed against his palm moves with the motion of Peter's nod. “Good. Those kind are a danger to us all.”

He rips the next strand of tape a bit too enthusiastically. “Aren't they though?”

The last bit of bandaging is laid before Peter finally broaches the subject Chris had assumed would be first. “This Alpha? Is he why only Derek and I are left?”

He imagines saying it, and how it would go. _No, he's what happened_ because _only you and Derek are left. You see, Petie, I finally escaped my father. Only I left Kate with him, and he twisted her up and tore her apart and she burned your family alive in their house. And probably laughed while she did it. You lived, but you went insane, and turned into the nightmare that creeps in the dark and eats children for supper. One day I'll put you down, too._

Of course, he says nothing of the sort, and because what Peter says is technically true – he killed Laura, thus reducing the final Hale count to two – he goes with the affirmative.

“Yes.”

Peter shivers under his hand and Chris steps back, his fingers balling into fists before he forces them to relax. “You're done. I'll see if there's any food that's edible.” He walks out before he can see Peter twist his neck from side to side, or slide his own hand back to feel at the dressing, or shrug his jacket back on and stuff his hands in the pocket. He doesn't want to see Peter at all.

Most of the food is spoiled. Cleaning the cabin out was somewhere on his list of things to do, but since the appearance of the Alpha pack, anything other than survival has slipped out of importance. There's a box of Ritz crackers shoved in the back of a cabinet, and a block of cheddar cheese that has escaped excessive molding. He's in the process of slicing the block when he hears Peter emerge, and he spins around when a frankly wounded sound escapes from Peter.

“What? What is it?” Nothing looks out of order, or out of place, except that Peter hasn't bothered to put his jacket back on, but he looks horrified and betrayed. Chris slowly inches his hand toward the gun behind him.

“You can't be serious, Christopher. Are you _trying_ to hurt me?” The majority of Peter's focus seems to be on the cheddar in Chris' left hand, and when the memory hits Chris, he's helpless to stop the choked up bit of laughter that escapes.

“Jesus, Peter, still with the cheese? Hate to break it to you, but gourmet shops aren't big on forest delivery.”

“It's disgusting, Chris. You're a barbarian.”

“Yes, and the entire cheddar industry exists solely to ruin your life.”

Peter smirks widely. “Exactly.” There's a second when his smirk morphs into a genuine smile, easy and welcoming, and then he's sprawling across the sofa, arms propped along the back. “I'm hurt you didn't remember. Unless this is revenge for the escargot incident of '89.”

The cheddar goes into the trash, and Chris tosses a sleeve of crackers and a bottle of water to Peter. “Snails, Peter. _Snails_. But if you'll stop whining, I'll try to bring something more edible back.” The cabin does need to be restocked, especially if he's going to be holing up here for a few days. And even if there isn't time for actual groceries tonight, he can at least grab a couple of cans of soup from the house.

For a few minutes there's nothing but the crinkling of the plastic wrapper as Peter tears it open and then he uncaps the water bottle, guzzling half the amount in one go. He smooths a hand over a tear in the label and looks at Chris speculatively.

“You're leaving?”

“I have to-” _make sure the news of your disappearance is spun correctly_ \- “check in with the others. And I need to make sure Allison is okay.” Which he does, although Scott would have called, screeching, if there had been more than a hair out of place on her head. “I'll be back later tonight. Eat. Get some sleep. You'll heal faster.” The cabin only has one bedroom. Chris will take the couch; it's the best position strategically, anyway.

He scoops his gun off the counter, re-holsters it and starts toward the door. Peter's voice catches him just as he steps through.

“Were we glad to see each other again?”

Chris answers honestly before shutting the door. “We've never talked about it.”

* * * * * * * * * *  
He wheels the old Indian from its storage place underneath the overhang off the back, and turns the ignition on; flips the kill switch to run and pops the clutch. He pulls the helmet from the handlebars and slips it on, before starting out on a weaving path through the trees, the narrow trail he's following barely distinguishable underneath the flora.

When he gets to the rendezvous, Allison is the first person he seeks out, finding her curled up in Scott's lap, a dark bruise along one cheek. She's on her feet as soon as she sees him, and he reaches her in two strides, wrapping his arms around her. He thanks whatever gods there are ( _no gods, only cold steel, only us between the ignorant and those animals_ ) that she's survived one more raid, and surreptitiously runs a hand over the back of her neck. The skin is unbroken, and he remembers the promise he'd made to her, three weeks old and screaming from colic in the middle of the night.

_Don't you worry, baby girl. This life won't be for you. Daddy promises._

He now intimately understands what they say about the road to hell, or the best laid plans of mice and men, or whatever the hell other euphemism means life is always going to fuck you in the end. But at least he can say he tried, which is more than Gerard ever did for his children.

Derek's betas are huddled in a corner, Boyd and Erica playing some kind of card game while Isaac sits with his back against the wall and pretends not to stare at Stiles, who's across the room and on his laptop and pretending not to do the exact same thing. They look fucked out and guilty and the fact that Chris is the only person who notices this only underscores the green nature of the soldiers – _children, they're children_ – he's been given to work with. Stiles might see it, were he on the outside, looking in. If Gerard were still here, he would say Stiles has _potential_ , would already be culling him for recruitment, even if he hadn't been pulled into hell by way of his best friend getting bitten. When Stiles recounts being trapped in the basement with Gerard, Chris doesn't have the heart to explain to him that Gerard was simply toughening him up.

For his part, Chris has yet to decide which way Stiles will go. If he ever snaps, Stiles has a dark streak in him a mile wide, and he's not particularly concerned about causing pain if he thinks it's for the right cause. When Kate was his age, she was the sarcastic, funny one, too.

Lydia and Jackson aren't there, because Lydia and Jackson disappeared early on. No one knows if they've been captured, killed, run away or defected, although Chris has his suspicions. It takes a special kind of desperation to work with people who have actively tried to kill you, and Lydia never could stay in the same room with Peter, anyway.

He's saved from further speculation by Derek sauntering down the stairs, just enough aggressive swagger in his stride to completely reveal him as the insecure boy he is. His feet have barely touched the floor before he's scanning the room and picking up on what's missing.

“Where's Peter?”

Chris waits as the answers make their way around the room. _Haven't seen him since we split up...Saw him when we were checking out the old warehouse...Not since this morning...._

When the talking settles, he interjects into the stillness. “If none of you have seen him, we need to consider the possibility he's been taken.” ( _No, see, you have to just pick your words. It's not like heart rates are an exact science. If I couldn't figure out how to lie to Nathan, do you know how much suck my life would be?)_

Even if Peter has escaped, the Alphas have his memories, and it's imperative Derek act on the fact they've been compromised. “We need to move base.”

There's panic, and arguing, and an angry stand off between Scott and Derek – business as usual – but in the end, Derek can't argue with logic, and the evening turns to packing up and moving to the next crappy, abandoned building on the list. When the kids are settled – children who should be safe in bed, but who now instead live in fear – Chris slips out, fully aware of Stiles' eyes on his back, and makes his way back home.

It takes less than five minutes to pack a saddlebag with a couple of cans of soup, another gun, and four more boxes of shells. As an afterthought, he grabs a few books from the study and an empty legal pad, then scrawls a note for Allison in case she comes home. Doubtful; since turning eighteen she's spent almost every night with Scott.

He doesn't even think about it when he makes one last trip to the kitchen, digs through the refrigerator, and emerges with a wedge of brie. It goes into the bag with everything else, and then he's back on the bike, heading through the woods, to a cabin that contains all his demons.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize that updates are slow in coming. I'm currently writing my thesis, which takes the majority of my time. So writing for fun is, unfortunately, a low priority :-/

Chris does not return until very late at night. The constraints of the cabin are mapped and walked and confining within the first half hour of his absence. There's nothing here; no books, no magazines, no pen or paper or anything to keep Peter from driving himself nuts from boredom. One bedroom, with room for a small chest of drawers and a full sized bed. It smells very, very, very faintly of Chris, with a few other notes mixed in, but over all it's musty, anonymous, and without personality.

He goes through the kitchen cupboards, making a face at the few cans of food. If Chris is expecting him to actually stay here, he's going to have to do a better job at shopping. This is ridiculous. And disgusting. The majority of the food is stale and expired by at least six months, but he culls the edible items and stacks them on the cabinet. He makes a mental list of the bare minimum Chris will have to shop for, sliding his fingers across the smooth, cheap Formica of the cabinet as he does. His mind is already miles away, wheels spinning as he picks apart what has happened today.

He told Chris he wouldn't ask questions questions of him. He never promised not to use his brain to put things together. Like the fact that if Chris was head of the operation, Gerard was either dead or Chris had broken away. Peter would bet on the former; as rebellious as Chris was as a teen, Gerard had had a hold on him Peter had never completely understood.

Or things like the fact that Chris has a daughter, but didn't say anything about her mother. Is he married? Divorced? A single parent? The sharp stab of jealousy he feels toward this faceless woman takes him by surprise. There's no cause for it. It's been years since Chris and he have seen each other. Been _that_ to each other. But it's there, and strong enough that he can feel his eyes wanting to bleed yellow. His own family, he can't even think about, because the knowledge that they are gone, when he can't even remember it...

It makes him want to howl and bite and rend. Maybe he has. Maybe he took his vengeance on this rogue alpha who stole his family away. Peter has never been particularly violent, unless the ones he loves are threatened (and excepting those few months, decades ago, right after he had lost his first anchor). It feels right, and so he files that in the “truth” column in his brain. Perhaps that's why Chris looks at him the way he does now.

Eventually he wanders his way back into the bedroom and flops down on the bed, wincing when his neck turns the wrong way and the scabs over the claw marks pull. It smells stronger of Chris, now that he's actually in the bed, and he closes his eyes and breathes, tries to fall asleep. It's late, and his body aches in ways that indicate other wolves did the harming, and he's exhausted enough that he should drift off like nothing. Instead he tosses and turns. Opens his eyes and closes them again. Takes in a deep breath. Chris' scent makes his muscles loosen, and the stiffness in his spine to unclench and he rolls on his side, grabs the pillow and curls into a ball with it tucked into his middle.

That same sense of wrongness, that tickling notion that somehow, the smell of Chris should do anything but let him relax, trickles slow down his neck. It's not enough, however, to outweigh the fact that Chris' scent _does_ calm him; always has, and he simply adds it to the growing pile of facts without conclusions, as he curls up tighter on himself and again closes his eyes.

He doesn't sleep, exactly, but he rests, listening to boards settling, and the sound of a deer running through the woods a quarter mile away, and the slither of a snake as it slides on its belly across and off the steps of the cabin. It's an hour, maybe two, when he hears the distant hum of a motorcycle engine, and by the time Chris is closing the door behind him, Peter is leaning against the bedroom door frame, ankles and arms crossed.

When Chris turns and sees him, he starts, but just barely, and only says mildly, “I thought you'd be asleep.”

There's no lights on in the cabin. Peter hasn't realized that, not until Chris reaches out and clicks a lamp on. He shrugs apologetically at his forgetfulness of the human niceties, a slip up he hasn't done in years – or at least he thinks he hasn't done in years. “I rested.”

Chris makes a non-committal noise before reaching into the saddlebag in his hand and tossing something to Peter. It's a wedge of brie, still cool from a refrigerator, and a corner of Peter's mouth curls up in a smirk. “I knew you loved me, Christopher.”

No reply as he walks the few steps into the kitchen; Chris drops the saddlebag on the floor and opens the small closet to pull out a thin, rough blanket and a flat pillow. He sets them on the couch while Peter takes out the one knife and a cheap plastic cutting board and sets to slicing the cheese. Chris sits on the edge of the cushions, hands clasped between open knees, and watches silently as Peter goes through the motions of pulling out crackers and stacking them with brie. He holds one out to Chris when he's done, but he shakes his head, so Peter shrugs and leans back against the counter, working his way through the quasi-meal.

“You realize you're going to have to get me some real food, Chris. I was not made to live this way.” He scowls at the sparse pile of cans and hodgepodge of packages he's set up. “I need actual sustenance.”

Chris' lips press together like he's trying not to crack a smile, and _Jesus_ , what does Peter have to do to get him to actually grin? This is definitely not the boy of easy smiles and laughs and dry sarcasm, and Peter feels a pang of regret that life has managed to beat him down after all.

“I doubt you'll be here past tomorrow. But if you are, I'll find something more to your standards.”

Silence falls again, and Chris seems to feel no compunction to break it. When Peter is finished, he stows the cheese in the refrigerator before wiping his hands on a neglected and dingy tea towel, then turns back to face Chris.

“Everything okay out there?” The not knowing is driving him crazy, the fact that there's some kind of war he's involved in of which he doesn't remember the slightest details. Doesn't even feel like there's a hole in his memories.

Chris hesitates a long time before nodding. “Yes. We had to relocate the kids, but everyone was accounted for.”

The fingers Peter has been running on the edge of the counter freeze, and he cocks his head at Chris. “We're using children? What a couple of hypocrites we turned out to be.”

Chris jerks like Peter has slapped him, and there's something bitter underlying his tone of voice when he answers.

“It wasn't my choice to involve them. I would have kept my _daughter_ out of this life completely if I'd had that choice. But I didn't, and once they were, better for them to learn to fight and stand with us, than to be picked off one by one.”

He stands abruptly, and shakes out the blanket, his body a study in angry movement. “Go to bed, Peter. Get better so I don't have to give you answers you already know.”

The last thing Peter sees, as he walks into the bedroom, is Chris stretching out on the couch, one hand tucked behind the pillow, and the other resting on his chest, curled around the butt of a handgun. 

* * * * * * * * * * 

Peter wakes up the next morning with the smell of smoke in his nose, the taste of ash in his mouth, and a burning rage that has no cause, and nowhere to go. All at once he's nauseated, and he stumbles out of bed, across the living room and to the small bathroom, falling to his knees and vomiting over and again into the toilet. There's the sound of quick footsteps, and the scent of Chris fills the room.

“Petie?” An arm falls across his shoulders and a hand cups the ball of his arm. “What's wrong?” Chris' voice is graveled from sleep, and when Peter wipes his mouth against his forearm and turns to look at him, he can tell he's only half awake, woken prematurely by Peter's flight across the cabin. He's bare-chested and barefoot and crouched flush against Peter on the floor.

“I don't know. Dream, or something. Fire. I felt sick. Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you.”

He can watch the literal process of Chris coming fully awake, see his face close off and his eyes harden into the wary man of yesterday. Chris pulls his arm carefully back. Careful in that way that means he'd in actuality wanted to jerk it off as quickly as possible. 

“I'll get you a glass of water.”

His torso twists as he prepares to stand, and the long, lean line of his back is revealed. Peter's eyes are drawn immediately to the tattoo up his ribs, and his fingers stretch out involuntarily, tracing the lines of the black, bold lettering before he can think better of it.

Chris freezes, absolutely motionless as Peter drags his hand across muscle and bone, the pattern still instinctive after all this time. There are things to be said for sense memory; werewolves live by it even more than humans, and with every pull of his fingers across dark ink, a memory surfaces, fresh and crisp.

_Laying on his back beside Chris on the sun warmed dock, feeling the gentle sway of the water beneath them._

_The horrified look in their faces as they stare at each other across the clearing, wondering if they were supposed to try to kill each other now that they knew what the other was._

_Chris braced over him, their eyes uncertain and wary and their lips swollen and wet. Peter licks his bottom lip and tastes Chris on his mouth. “Christopher?” He needs some confirmation of what has just happened._

The muscle under his fingers twitch, and Chris shifts back, pulling Peter back to the now. Chris' eyes are narrowed and angry as he watches him, and Peter wonders again what has happened to make him so hard. He lets his thumb drag down the letters one more time before withdrawing his hand.

“ _Indissolutus_. I guess we weren't so unbreakable after all.”

Chris stands, his face an expressionless mask. “Nothing is unbreakable. I'll get your water.”

Peter doesn't move. Stays on his knees until Chris returns and crouches back down beside him, hands him a glass. He waits until Peter drinks the entire thing before taking it from him and setting it on the back of the toilet. When Chris shifts again, it's to move until he's behind Peter, his thumb and forefinger working to peel back the tape on the bandage.

“Let's see how this looks.”

Peter grimaces at the pull of tape against skin and the short hairs of his nape, and can hear the frown in Chris' voice when he gets the gauze all the way off.

“It's not healing as quickly as I'd expected.” Chris nudges Peter's head down. The pad of a thumb presses over one of the claw marks, before sliding to the next, and Peter's thought processes stumble and stop.

_“Is this okay?” Chris is kneeling behind him, his knees bracketing Peter's hips. Their shirts are...somewhere...and Chris' chest is flush with his back. He runs his thumb up Peter's neck before pressing his mouth to the top nob of his spine._

_Peter's hands tighten reflexively on Chris' knees, even as he smirks. “If you were another wolf, this would be you asking me to submit.”_

_Chris jerks and starts to pull back. “Fuck, I'm sorry. That's not what I -”_

_Peter cuts him off by hooking his fingers under the curve of his knee and yanking him back. “No! I didn't mean... It's not bad. It's not bad. I want to.” He drops his head lower, giving Chris his neck._

Peter shivers, and the thumb on his neck stutters in its journey. Just for a second. Just for a second, but in that brief window, Chris' heart rate spikes, then settles, and when his thumb resumes motion, it's a slow drag until he reaches the bottom of the rows of claw marks. Peter clenches his fists and then forces them to relax when Chris withdraws his hand and stands.

“It is healing, though, right?”

Chris' words are cool and detached as he retrieves more gauze and tape; his movements efficient as he redresses the wound. “It is.”

“And you think when it's healed...” He lets the unspoken question trail off.

Chris rises to his feet and Peter follows, sees the clench and tick of Chris' jaw muscles before he answers.

“It has to.”

* * * * * * * * * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I bet you thought I'd abandoned this. Surprise!

Chris has already come to terms with the Peter conundrum, months ago. Oh, not when Peter first dies, lit up like a roman candle, and the smell of burning flesh making Chris' stomach roil. It always does, no matter how many corpses he burns or how many monsters he has to put down with flame. He controls it, because it's part of the job, but it's still there; an eternal reminder of the time he's seventeen and helps Gerard kills an arachne and vomits beside her smoking corpse. The disdain in Gerard's expression is easy to read. _Weak. Pathetically weak, boy._

 

Chris never throws up at a hunt again.

 

So when Allison and her classmates set Peter on fire, Chris registers the smell, but pushes his body's response down, much like he does with the knowledge, gained only moments before, that the monster they've been hunting, the Alpha responsible for multiple deaths, is a man who's mouth he'd once known better than his own. Much like he does with the revelation that his sister had somehow become so twisted that she'd seduced a child in order to butcher his entire family.

 

They're dead, so there's no need to examine it further. No need for introspection or whys. He helps Derek tear up floor boards and dig a pit. He attends Kate's funeral and welcomes Gerard into town. He is a soldier and he deals in the situations in front of him, not in the corpses he's left behind.

 

But then Victoria dies. And Gerard tries to turn Allison into another Katie. And Chris goes to a warehouse to confront a kanima, and sees a dead man walk through the door. Then, Gerard is dead, or gone to ground, and an alpha pack brings war to their doorstep, and the only other adult who knows how to play the game is a psychotic murderer.

 

In the immediate aftermath, Chris spends days repeating to himself, over and over, that this is not his Peter. That the boy he knew is dead, has been dead since the day Kate set the Hale house on fire. That this is just a shell of his body, filled with a monster that he'll kill one day. Peter is dead. This is not Peter. A week, maybe two, and he knows it to his bones. Never sees Petie when he looks at Derek's uncle. Doesn't, actually, think about him at all. That boy was burned away a long time ago.

 

He selects from the sparse stack of food on the counter – if Peter is not recovered by tonight he'll have no choice but to make a shopping trip – his movements short, sharp and efficient. It's a cover for the fury he feels, because he refuses to let this fucked up version of Peter put holes in the foundations he's built up; refuses to acknowledge the cracks are already there. Because if all Peter was has been burned away, then regardless of alpha mind tricks, he should still be psychotic. An amnesiac psychotic, to be sure, but the monster should still remain. The fact that the last six years have peeled away from him as easily as a scab that has done its job, revealing the fresh healed skin it has been protecting...it means that somewhere hidden inside him, all this still exists.

 

And Chris just doesn't know what to do with that knowledge. Just like he doesn't know what to do with the reality that Peter's flight to the bathroom had woken him from a dead sleep, filled with panic – not that Peter had recovered and was about to murder him in his sleep, but that he was _hurt._ That something was _wrong._ That it's not until he fully wakes up that he realizes he's crouched next to him on the bathroom floor, wrapped around him like so many times when they were young and Peter was worn out and worn down by the full moon.

 

It's a thought that plagues him as he makes two mugs of instant coffee and slides one across to Peter, who catches the handle in one hand and lifts it to his mouth. Chris' skin feels split apart and torn off. Sandblasted raw and healed too tight. He can still feel the press of Peter's neck against his hand. He can still feel Peter's fingers tracing up his tattoo. That stupid fucking tattoo that he should have had removed years ago. The one he _will_ get removed as soon as this fiasco is over with. Except perhaps not, because that seems like it would be some kind of acknowledgment that the past still somehow matters. And it does not.

 

“Where's Allison's mother?” Peter asks, out of the blue and unexpected. Chris doesn't start, his fingers don't squeeze too tight around the coffee mug, and he doesn't suck in a painful breath of air. He wouldn't be very good at his job if he hadn't learned a long time ago to control knee jerk responses. But he can't stop the sudden speeding of his heart rate, and he can tell by the narrowing of Peter's eyes that it doesn't go unnoticed.

 

“She died,” he answers mildly, and goes back to sipping his coffee. _She died, and I helped kill her, and I didn't try to talk her out of it because I knew she'd made her mind up. But I would have loved her. I would have loved her regardless of what she was or what she became. She was my_ wife.

 

“Long time ago?” Peter's watching him curiously

 

“Long enough.” Chris unceremoniously dumps his coffee in the sink, then rifles through his saddlebag. The magazines of crossword puzzles and sudoko he'd snagged from the house is dropped on the counter in front of Peter, along with a pen. “See if you're still any good. I'm going to check the perimeter.”

 

It takes far too short a time to affirm that nothing has approached the edges of the property but him, and he expands his search for another half mile, eating up the time it takes for the sun to climb almost directly overhead. When he returns to the cabin, Peter is sprawled across the couch, one leg drawn up at the knee to rest the crossword book on and the other hanging lazily off the edge, bare toes curled up against the wooden flooring. He's chewing on the end of the pen as he stares at some puzzle or the other with narrowed eyes.

 

“Christopher!” he barks, almost as soon as the door closes, and Chris starts out a low _Don't call me that_ which completely gets run over as Peter continues. “Nine letter word meaning 'an extremely confused, complicated or embarrassing matter.' Third letter is a b.”

 

_This situation,_ Chris mentally snarks, before realizing he actually does know the answer. “Imbroglio.” He resolutely pays no attention to the small, pleased smile Peter makes as he scrawls in the word, or that part of the smile is clearly meant to extend to him.

 

_This is not Peter. Peter is dead. This is not Peter._

 

“I'm off,” Peter says mournfully. “I should have known that. ”

 

“You've been busy with other things.”

 

“ _What_ other things, Christopher?” Peter's eyes are suddenly sharp and intent on his face, and Chris should know better than to forget Peter misses nothing, whether he's fifteen or forty, or that he's never been above lulling people into a false sense of ease before striking.

 

“ _Things,_ Petie. Another day. Another day at most -” dear God don't let it go on any longer than that - “And you promised to let it go, remember?” The nickname is just a natural reaction to the _Christopher_ , he tells himself. Just a knee jerk response to Peter being the only person he ever allowed to use the extended version of his name, just like Chris was the only person not to get eviscerated for shortening Peter's. Reactions to Peter, though, even knee jerks, can't be allowed, and Chris keeps his eyes blank as Peter sighs dramatically and and flings his legs back across the couch.

 

“You can't blame a boy for trying, Chris.”

 

Chris does not roll his eyes.

 

The thing with there being nothing in the cabin, is that there is, in turn, nothing to _do._ Chris is not used to inaction; has not had the luxury of sitting still for what seems like years. With all the thought he'd given to making sure Peter was too occupied to scheme, he'd neglected to factor his own boredom into the equation. There's only so long he can lean against the kitchen counter and stare at anywhere but Peter, and fuck if he'd ever been able to figure out sudoku, so the other magazine is useless as well.

 

His skin itches with the need to move. He'd break his firearm down, but to do so would put him at a disadvantage should Peter attack, and he would never be stupid enough to allow that. He walks the length of the cabin. He walks into the bedroom and almost immediately turns around and walks out. The bed is still unmade and Peter's jacket is thrown across the dresser. He'd never entered Peter's bedroom as a teenager – at least not until Peter and all his family's possessions were long gone – and he has no desire to start now.

 

He closets himself in the washroom, and after dunking his head in the sink, braces his hands on the edges and takes a long, hard look at himself. There's more gray in his hair than there was last year, more lines around his eyes. He's old for a hunter; practically ancient in this line of work. Hunters don't die natural deaths; no matter how good they are, there will always be something faster, stronger, or found in too large of a pack. Especially for hunters who still follow an arbitrary and outdated set of guidelines in an attempt to convince themselves they're not just another kind of monster.

 

He shakes himself, droplets of water flying from his hair and spattering across the mirror and wall, and pulls himself out of his head. It's possible he's made a tactical error, possible he should have either shoved this problem onto Derek and damn the consequences, or left Peter to meet his fate in the woods - also damn the consequences. But he _refuses_ to lose his daughter to this war, and unwitting or not, Peter is his best ally in that. Which is so _fucking_ ironic that he laughs and laughs and laughs, curled over the faucet and hands clenching the sink so hard they turn white.

 

Peter is making lunch when he walks back out, some kind of grilled cheese thing that he's managing to make overly fancy, because that's what Peter _does,_ and if he's heard Chris' laughter he gives no sign. He does demand Chris get some decent food before he starves, and Chris begrudgingly repeats his promise of actually groceries for the next day.

 

Chris is on his third retread of the room when Peter snakes out an arm and catches his wrist. Before he's consciously thought it through, Chris ducks, pulling the knife from his boot while simultaneously jerking Peter off balance and using the momentum to spin around. He slams Peter into the wall, one arm twisting Peter's behind his back and the other holding the edge of the blade to his throat. Peter stares back at him, his eyebrows raised, but other than the fact his eyes have shifted yellow, there's no hint of fear in his face. The finger he raises to delicately nudge Chris' hand from his throat is claw-tipped, though, and Chris catches just the slightest flash of fang when he opens his mouth.

 

“Christ, Chris, you're wound tight. Your pacing is insufferable.” He narrows his eyes as Chris carefully pulls the knife away, mutters _sorry_ , and steps back so that they're no longer pressed flush. “We...are not friends these days, are we, Christopher?”

 

Chris does not deign to answer him, just moves to sit at the tiny breakfast table. He spins the knife slowly on its surface, his eyes following its movement until all he sees is the blur of metal as it catches a glint of light from the overhead. The weight of Peter studying him is heavy on the crown of his head, but he focuses on the spin and not Peter searching for a tell; eventually floorboards creak, Peter returns to cooking, and the knife stops spinning, the point of its blade directed toward the wall at Chris' right elbow. He sheathes it and watches Peter move through the kitchen, all lithe grace and sinuous movement, like he's walked this room a million times before. He looks completely at ease, utterly unconcerned about the loss of his memory, or anything else that's happened in the last twenty-four hours. Except for the way he stops to tap the tip of one index finger against the counter for several long minutes as he waits for the skillet to heat up. Except for the three times Peter's hand drifts to the nape of his neck and tugs sharply on the hair there before returning to his side. Peter's tells are tiny, and rare, but Chris knows them as well as he knows his own. They're tells that have been completely absent in the months since Peter's resurrection, which makes Chris wonder exactly how hard Peter's been working to suppress them in his presence.

 

Neither of them speak until Peter finishes. He slides a sandwich across the table to Chris, set on a chipped plate Chris remembers vaguely picking up at a thrift store for ten cents. The bread has more than a hint of freezer burn, due to the months it's spent in one, but the cheese is hot and gooey, stringing out when he takes a bite, and Peter has managed to dig up dried basil from dark corners of cabinets unknown.

 

He nods around his mouthful at Peter, who's standing at the counter and eating his own. “S'good.” And because it's simply rude not to acknowledge the effort, he also mutters a _thanks._ He doesn't feel thankful though, and the crook of mouth Peter gives in return is more sandpaper down his spine. It only gets worse when Peter finishes, brushes his hands on the sides of his pants, and then leans back against the counter on his elbows. Peter purses his lips thoughtfully.

 

“I hope I at least gave Derek good advice.”

 

Chris' brain can't make sense of the non sequitur, and he's too irritated to try. “What are you talking about?”

 

“That was the plan for yesterday afternoon,” Peter answers lightly. “Or the yesterday afternoon six years ago. Pick Derek up, cajole him into confessing his secret crush and then give him my manly advice on how to win his ladylove's heart. I know, I know, you don't have to say it - I am indeed an incredible uncle.”

 

Chris snorts and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. Peter continues conspiratorially.

 

“I think she's a blonde.”

 

Chris sits back up in a slow, measured movement. “What makes you say that?”

 

The chair across from his makes a loud, scraping noise as Peter pulls it out and sits, leaning across the table as he continues. “Think I caught a glimpse of her talking to Derek the other day. At least the back half of her. On the swim team, obviously, although I didn't know they'd gotten any new members. I admit I'm a little disappointed Derek's taste are so predictable, but you know teenage boys. What can you do?” He's smirking as he says it, and Chris knows he's making some sort of rueful dig at their own relationship, but he's unable to appropriately respond. He's far too busy swallowing down the nausea at the confirmation that Peter is talking about Kate, and that the only advice Derek needed by then was to take his family and run.

 

A part of him wants to ask Peter the date, to find out just how many days he'd had left before Kate would use mountain ash to trap the entire Hale family in their basement and set them aflame. How many days had been left before Kate murdered Peter Hale and let a monster be born in his place. Before his _baby sister_ had set in motion a chain of events that would end up robbing Chris of almost everything he loved. Ironic, really, and probably just recompense for her actions. A life for a life. A family for a family.

 

A part of him wants to ask, but he can't. He can't face that, he can't know, and his hands are shaking and Peter is saying something but Chris can't hear it over the rushing noise in his head and -

 

– his phone rings, some kind of answer to an unspoken prayer, and he vaults out his chair and through the front door, not caring if it looks like he's running, and not stopping until he's far enough away that Peter can't see or smell or overhear.

 

The number on the caller ID belongs to Stiles, and he's already babbling by the time Chris answers with a harsh “What?”

 

“We caught one, Mr. Argent....they tried to corner us in that warehouse on fifth and center, I think they've decided to target the humans in the pack, but Allison was right behind us and they didn't know so we got the drop on them and there was a fight...there was a fight, and it was kind of ugly, but I had that new stuff Deaton made and we got one isolated and then Isaac and Scott got there and there was...I was...”

 

“ _Stiles._ ” His rambling has centered Chris enough that his head is back where it should be. “Focus.”

 

“We got one of the Alphas. We got Kali.”

 

It's a motherfucking coup. They've been trying to capture one of the Alpha pack for _weeks_ , but have never quite managed it. He's already walking back toward the cabin. “Did you -”

 

“Yeah, yeah, we have her in the basement. Isaac is trying to find Derek. Mr. Argent, are you -”

 

“Yeah, I'm on my way, kid. You just do what I told you until I get there.”

 

“Okay.” Stiles doesn't hang up, though, and something in the silence is telling.

 

“What happened? What aren't you saying?”

 

He can actually hear Stiles licking his lips. “We caught her, okay? And, um, everyone's _alive_. But they, um...Allison...she's not...Look, Ms. McCall is here, and she says Allison is gonna be okay, but there was a lot of blood and maybe a broken arm?”

 

“God _dammit_!” Stiles is still talking, but Chris disconnects the call as he runs the rest of the way to the cabin and scrapes the keys from the floor by the couch. Peter looks up, startled.

 

“Chris, what's --”

 

“I have to go.” He's slinging the saddlebag over his shoulder and already halfway out the door when Peter grabs his wrist again. Chris tries to shake him off, but he's using the advantage of his extra strength to keep Chris from succeeding.

 

“Something's happened. What's happened, Christopher?”

 

“Let go,” he hisses. “It doesn't concern you.” -lie- “Just _stay_. I'll be back.”

 

Peter's grip tightens. “Take me with you. I can _help_. Whatever's happening, I should be there.”

 

Chris digs his fingers into Peter's arm and steps into him. He bares his teeth and snarls, “You can _help_ by letting me the fuck go and letting me get to my daughter. That's the only thing you can do right now unless you want to get us killed. Is that what you want?” Low blow, but he needs to be halfway to the safehouse by now, not arguing. Hell, maybe it will jar Peter into remembering that yeah, he does in fact want Chris dead, and then this whole charade can be _over_. As usual of late, Chris' luck doesn't run in those directions, because Peter just narrows his eyes.

 

“Unfair, Christopher. And unworthy of you. Maybe I'll just follow you. I bet I could keep up with you and your little bike. Could probably sniff out your trail either way. Should we wager on it?”

 

Chris acts on instinct, on the echoing resolution of countless arguments from countless years before. He wraps his free hand around the back of Peter's neck, feeling the bumps of scabs against his palm, and presses their foreheads together.

 

“Peter, _please_. I'm trying to take care of us, I promise.” This is an undeniable truth. If Peter chooses to interpret it in a more personal manner, then so much the better. “I can't do that if I can't trust you to hold up your end of the agreement. Yes, things are happening. No, I'm not going to tell you what. You said you would trust me. I need you to do that. And I need you to let. me. go. Now.”

 

There's a space of several breaths where Peter doesn't do anything, where they just stand frozen, far too close for comfort, and Chris can feel Peter's breath on his face. Peter's eyes are inscrutable, and his grip on Chris' wrist tightens minutely before he finally releases him and steps back, ducking out of Chris' hold. He doesn't speak, but he does nod, his jaw tight. Chris isn't stupid enough to think the discussion is over, but for now Peter is standing down, and that's all he needs.

 

He nods back, then turns and sprints out the door, letting it slam behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, it's been a criminally long time since I last updated. But please know I _am_ committed to completing the story. I would like to have it done before season 3 debuts, but I think we all know my track record on that score. Also, this story was started before the revelation that Talia was the Alpha of the pack; I'm not interesting in retconning for that, so Nathan will remain the Hale patriarch. As always, many thanks goes to my lovely Cede for her continued advice, encouragement, and support. Although there are some significant differences, much of Chris and Peter's back story is based off of the Tumblr RPs of christopherargent and wereallworksinprogress, and used with their permission.

 

_He runs through the forest, dodging trees and leaping over ditches and doing that stupid four legged run that he never, ever does around Chris because even if it's faster it looks_ ridiculous _. But that doesn't matter now. The only thing that matters is finding Chris. After what seems like forever, he bursts through the treeline into the clearing around the pond, which is shimmering gray in the white winter light._

 

_It's too cold to actually swim, but it's still a convenient meeting place, a hiding place, and nine times out of ten if he goes looking for Chris, it's here he'll find him. This time is no different; Chris is sprawled out on the rotted out dock with his hands tucked under his head, but as soon as Peter breaks the treeline he's rolling to his feet and reaching for whatever weapon he has tucked in his boot. When he sees it's Peter, his hand drops, his defensive stance disappears, and a pleased grin erases the mask of coldness on his face. He's just seventeen again, and Peter's heart pounds, aches, and then shatters into pieces._

 

“ _Petie!” He jogs toward the head of the dock, toward Peter, and it's only when he's steps away that Peter sees his stride falter. Sees his brow furrow as he recognizes the distress Peter is no doubt emanating completely unchecked. When he's within arms reach, Chris cups his cheek with one hand and his upper arm in the other, and Peter does his best to concentrate on the soothing motion of Chris' thumb over his tattoo rather than the panic that is swallowing him whole. Chris, for his part, is examining him with an edge of frantic concern._

 

“ _What's wrong? What's wrong?”_

 

“ _He knows, Christopher.” Peter slides his hand up the back of Chris' shirt, underneath his jacket and Henley, and palms Chris' own tattoo._ “ _Nathan_ knows. _”_

 

“ _What do you mean he knows? Knows what?”_

 

“ _About your family. About what you_ do _. About_ us. _”_

 

_Peter's panic has started leaching its way to Chris, and he doesn't even know the worst. Not even the worst._

 

“ _How does he - How did he find -”_

 

“ _I don't know. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. He's taking all of us away, Christopher. We're_ leaving _.”_

 

_Chris starts and his fingers dig into Peter's arm. Peter can hear the crackle of frost bitten leaves breaking under the whistle of winter wind, the creak of the dock as it's buffered by the water, the harsh hissing of air through his and Chris' mouths as they both suck in a harsh, sudden breath in tandem._

 

“ _When?” Chris whispers, something shocked and disbelieving painting his word._

 

“ _Now. Tonight. The house was already packed when I got home from school. I've only got a few...he gave me....he told me I could tell you good-bye.” The prospect of a future with no Chris opens black and deep beneath his feet. He wants to whine out his distress. He wants to howl at the dimming lights. He wants to rake his claws across Nathan's implacable expression and superiority of older brotherhood. He can do none of these things._

 

_Chris is violently shaking his head, the whites of his eyes clear and stark. “No. Uh uh. No.” His hands are in Peter's hair, pawing and clenching fitfully as he steps further into Peter's space and brings their mouths together like he can stop this thing by sheer force of will. He kisses desperate, just as desperate as Peter kisses back, and when they stop to breathe he says, shaking and hopeful -_

 

“ _Stay. You could stay. Don't go with them.”_

 

_Peter rears back. If a future without Chris is unimaginable, a future without his pack is equally horrifying, especially at seventeen. Pack is everything. Pack is identity. Pack is strength. Pack is_ family _. “I can't. I can't. I'd be an Omega. You_ know _what happens to Omegas. What your father does to us.” But maybe... “You come with us. Nathan would understand.” Peter would make him understand. And then he would never have to see Chris' face close up and freeze when he talks about his father, or the too brave and careless face he puts on when he shows up wearing bruises from training, or have to listen to Chris reduce his worth to nothing more than a aimed weapon. “You would be pack. Like Jody's husband.”_

  

_For a minute, just a minute, Chris' eyes light up, and hope flares bright in Peter's chest. But then it starts to fade as Chris' eyes darken again and he slowly shakes his head. “Gerard would never let me go. He'd come after me. He'd find me. He'd find_ you _. That can't happen. I can't let that happen.”_

 

_A wolf howls in the distance and Peter knows it's his summons home. He tangles his hands in Chris' Henley and buries his face in his neck. “I have to go.”_

 

“ _Wait. Just wait.” The light is back in his eyes and while he doesn't look particularly happy, he does look resolved. “But once I'm eighteen...once I'm eighteen he doesn't have a claim. And he's already talking about sending me out on solo hunts. It's only six months. We can make it six months, right? Six months and I'll leave. If I can't find you, you can find me, right? Sniff me out, follow me, yeah? Follow my trail? I'll make it easy until we find each other.”_

 

_Nathan could do it for sure, so Peter will figure it out; they'll hunt each other down, just like the games they've played before. He can last six months without Chris if the tradeoff is having him forever. He digs his nails into Chris' tattoo and Chris grins back at him, sharp and wild, and bruises Peter's in return._

 

“ _Yeah,” Peter nods. “Yeah, I can.”_

 

_Another howl sounds, and Chris wraps his hand around the back of Peter's neck and presses their foreheads together. His voice is firm and measured and his heartbeat completely steady. “We're going to be fine, Petie. Trust me. Nothing is going to stop us. It'll be okay. It'll be okay. I'll see you soon.”_

 

_And if Chris believes it, then Peter believes it, because he believes in Chris and there is absolutely nothing Chris can't do if he puts his mind to it. He nods and Chris kisses him hard, hard enough to bruise, then lets go and steps back. They stare at each other for a long minute before Peter murmurs “I'll see you soon. Promise.” Then he takes off into the woods and doesn't look back._

 

_***********_

 

The sound of Chris' bike spinning out on the dirt before catching and disappearing into the woods jerks Peter out of his thoughts. He turns away from the closed door, brain still caught in that hazy place between past and present.

 

They don't find each other, of course. By the time six months pass, Peter is near feral, having lost his anchor and showing no interest in trying to find another one. He can barely keep it together enough to keep from raging through the city, much less put together any comprehensive plan to locate Chris. Nathan doesn't let him leave the house. Chains him up during the full moons to stop him from hurting anyone. And he doesn't. No one but himself at least.

 

When the seventh full moon passes, Nathan unchains him, sits down beside him, and with grim eyes and brutal efficiency, tears apart every truth Peter has clung to about what he and Chris had. Without Chris there to remind him, all Peter's beliefs seem gossamer thin and Nathan seems so sure ( _Did he ever tell you he loved you? He didn't, did he? They aren't like us, Peter. You can never be to him what you want to be. He's a hunter. Did he stop hunting when he was with you? Of course not. If he saw you like this he would kill you. Or run screaming)._ Peter tries to argue, to defend Chris, tries to explain to Nathan things he really doesn't have words to accurately describe, but Nathan is ruthless. Relentless.

 

Nathan drives in the final nail when he sighs and his expression softens and he runs a hand over his face. _Remember when I went out of town last month for business? I...lied. I can't stand seeing you like this. I went to get him for you. They're gone, Peter. Packed up. Cleaned house. He didn't leave you any way to find him. I checked every inch. I promise._ _I'm sorry_.

 

Peter does not cry, and he does not rage. He does nothing but sit against the wall for the rest of the day, running his fingers along his tattoo and staring into space.

 

Peter cleans up after that. Gets himself under control. Never really finds another anchor, but finds increments of restraint in random things. The smell of gun oil. The music of The Rolling Stones. Reruns of Star Trek and the sound of rain hitting a lake. He becomes stable and respectable and eventually the cleverest, funniest, most favorite uncle to a brood of nieces and nephews.

 

Years pass before he's finally old enough to understand that Nathan had been _terrified_. Terrified that Peter would completely lose himself and that hunters would find him. Terrified that _he_ would have to put him down before Peter endangered them all. Terrified that the Hales would lose another family member. It took that long for Peter to understand Nathan would have said anything necessary to keep that from happening, whether it was the truth or not.

 

And Peter, with the clarity of adulthood, knows the things Nathan said are lies.

 

He doesn't begrudge Nathan or resent him. Nathan had been little more than a child himself, saddled with too great a responsibility at too young an age, and doing the best he could in a world turned dark and ugly. But even with this understanding, Peter had never seriously considered trying to find out what happened to Chris. Too much time has passed and Chris surely had his own life now, just as Peter had his. And if, after the Hales reclaim Beacon Hills, he occasionally found himself standing outside the long vacant Argent house in the middle of the night?

 

Well, that was his business.

 

And now he's woken up to see Chris suddenly in front of him and years of his life gone and something on the very bad side of wrong going on. He doesn't know what side is up and he doesn't know what has passed between them and this is _definitely_ his business. There's something. Something just on the tip of his brain and he just can't _grasp_ it. Chris should have been smart enough to know Peter's patience with being in the dark is monumentally short. He turns into the cabin and begins to methodically tear it apart in a search for clues.

 

************

 

When Chris steps into the safe house, he's greeted by a low, continuous growl, and the sight of Scott crouched defensively in front of the two women on the couch. When he confirms it's Chris, the growls stop, but he continues to track Chris' every move with glowing yellow eyes. His instinct to protect Allison is stronger than any rational line of thought. It's the only reason Chris wordlessly puts up with Scott putting his hands on his daughter, even if it sometimes causes as much trouble as benefit. But Scott would die for Allison, and that is the only thing Chris really cares about.

 

He sidesteps him to where Melissa has Allison's head cradled in her lap. There's a heavy cast on Allison's arm – which explains the plaster and cotton and scissors on the coffee table – and a thick bandage on her neck. Her eyes are closed and she doesn't stir when he sits on the arm of the couch. His eyes flash from her face to Melissa's, and she must read his sudden spike of terror in them, because she shakes her head and puts a hand on his arm.

 

“It's not a bite. Or claws. She got -” Melissa cuts off and presses her lips together for half a second. “It's just shrapnel from the newest weaponry. Luckily it missed the artery. I gave her something for the pain so she could sleep. The arm's a clean break. The cast is good, I promise.”

 

He knows it is. Melissa is a solid ally, despite her hatred for the violence they've brought to her son and the fact she can't stomach participating in that violence herself.

 

The house is silent. Too silent. “Where is everyone?”

 

It's Scott who answers, finally relaxing enough to turn and kneel in front of the couch. “Isaac went to find Derek. Erica and Boyd are keeping watch at Danny's house. Stiles is downstairs with -”

 

“Kali.” Chris' jaw hardens as he stands back up. “I think I'll join him.”

 

“Chris.” Melissa catches his arm as he goes. “This has to stop. This can't keep happening.”

 

He nods, but doesn't say anything, because no it doesn't, and yes, it can, and Melissa knows that just as well as he does. She lets go, though, and Scott takes his place as Chris descends to the basement. Stiles is sitting behind the control panel, and Chris hits the bottom of the stairs just in time to see him jack the electricity up for half a second before he catches sight of Chris and lowers it. Kali, hanging from the cuffs in the center of the room, stiffens and hisses but otherwise makes no sound. When the current finishes out, she loosens back up and smirks, casual and by all appearances totally at ease.

 

Chris sheds his jacket and leans his hip against the table that holds an array of weaponry, including a broadsword that Gerard gifted to him for his eighteenth birthday. “Stiles.”

 

“Mr. Argent.” He doesn't take his eyes from Kali as he answers, and Chris can see his hand hovering over the dial.

 

“Has she told you anything?” The kid was supposed to _wait_. That's the deal. Chris is the questioner, the torturer, the executioner. As pitiful as the attempt may be, Chris does try to shelter his youthful army from the ugly necessities as much as possible.

 

Stiles shakes his head. “I haven't asked anything. We're supposed to wait on you.” He slouches lower before bouncing up from the seat, and it's easy to read the shuttered fury on his face. Stiles is kind. Except when he's not.

 

Potential.

 

“Well, I'm here now, so you can go.” Unsurprisingly, Stiles stays exactly where he is, so Chris dismisses him from his mind and focuses on the werewolf in front of him. He circles her slowly, and despite her bonds, she exhibits no fear. She doesn't take her eyes from him when he's in her range, either, because she's also not stupid. You don't survive to become a member of an Alpha pack by dismissing a hunter with the type of reputation Chris Argent carries.

 

“Kali. Anything you want to say before we start here?”

 

She sneers. “Argent. How's the kid doing? Bet she's gonna carry a pretty souvenir for the rest of her life. Short as it will be. Poor thing. We're gonna keep coming you know. Gonna pick your sweet little humans babies off one by one. They slice like _butter._ So sweet. Gonna make you bleed until you bow. Well, not you. We don't really need humans these days. But I'm gonna save you for last. Maybe let you watch while I -” She cuts off and clenches her teeth and Chris stares at her blandly from behind the control panel as the electricity pulses through her and he silently counts down from ten. When he hits zero, he dials the current back down and picks up a knife.

 

The shallow vertical cuts he makes along her wrists – right between the major veins – don't heal; a purposeful reminder he could slit her wrists and let her bleed out at any time. He flips the knife in his hand and goes back to recline against the control panel. “Now I think we're ready.” He doesn't feel even a faint flicker of remorse at his brutality; she would do the same thing if their positions were reversed. _Has_ done the same thing.

 

It goes pretty much as he'd expected. This isn't a couple of scared betas; this is a seasoned alpha who follows an even more seasoned alpha. He questions and presses and applies the judicious use of pain and never lets the electricity stay at one setting long enough for her to grow accustomed to it. Kali smirks and laughs and hisses through the blows. And answers exactly nothing.

 

He's at the table, running his hands over the next selection of tools, when Stiles speaks for the first time since Chris arrived. He straightens from the wall, walks until he's directly in front of Kali, and tilts his head as he studies her.

 

“What did you guys do with Peter?”

 

For the first time Kali falters, looks momentarily confused before returning to a grin full of split lips and bleeding gums. She spits out a mouthful of blood, which splatters across Stiles' shirt. He's in the process of dancing back and cursing when she answers.

 

“Peter Hale? The would-be Alpha king? Why would we -”

 

Chris is already moving to interrupt, to misdirect, when the house shakes from the force of the front door slamming. There's no sound of fight or growl which means Isaac has likely returned with Derek. Stiles stops flailing over the state of his shirt to take a half-step toward the stairs before stopping, caught no doubt between running to check on Isaac and maintaining his shoddy illusion that he could care less about a member of Derek's pack. Chris couldn't ask for more fortuitous timing and he isn't about to waste it. He jerks his head toward the stairs.

 

“Find out what's happening.”

 

Stiles doesn't wait to be told twice, and he's barely out of sight before Chris is wrapping his hand around the hilt of the broadsword. His lips stretch into a humorless smile as hefts its weight in both hands and steps into the spot Stiles had left open, the specter of his father peering over his shoulder.

 

“I'm sorry you chose not to cooperate.”

 

Kali doesn't flinch or cower and her smile is just as humorless as his. “Don't pretend it would have made any difference in the outcome, Argent.”

 

He shrugs, conceding easily. “No, it wouldn't have.” Then he hefts the sword and swings in a wide, strong arc.

 

By the time Derek comes sauntering down the stairs, Stiles and Isaac trailing behind him, Chris is crouched at the bottom half of Kali's body, examining the claws of one foot. Isaac makes a retching sound when he sees Kali's bisected body, and then the retching becomes vomiting as a string of her intestines hits the ground with a soft, plopping sound. Chris doesn't look up as he slides the point of a dagger underneath Kali's toenail to remove the residue caught behind it.

 

“She wouldn't have broken. Her instinct to protect her pack was too strong. If she'd been a beta we'd have had a better chance.” He stands and quickly walks to Derek, handing him the dagger, hilt first. Stiles has neither gagged nor looked at Kali's body. Instead he watches Chris with narrowed eyes. Chris ignores him easily.

 

“Why are you giving me this?” Derek's eyebrows are as pinched as his mouth and he makes a deliberate show of looking slowly over both halves of Kali's body without comment. Probably to prove to Chris he isn't bothered by the sight or that it doesn't dredge up memories of his own sister's body. Of course, the effort might have been more convincing if his free hand wasn't balled in a fist at his side or if his face hadn't gone the color of a sheet. If Peter had been here there would have been definite eye-rolling, but Chris refrains and touches the point of the dagger instead.

 

“Dirt from under her toenails. It's full of iron filings. There's a handful of plants in town that deal with iron and then there's the mine. I'm going to check out the mine. I suggest you check out the warehouses.” He leaves the dagger with Derek and starts up the stairs. “If my daughter becomes canon fodder because of your stupidity, I'll give you to the alpha pack as a peace offering.”

 

Derek starts to spit out some threat or the other, but Chris cuts him off without looking back. “Save it for someone who'll believe you.”

 

“Argent!”

 

Chris sighs and does roll his eyes then, but only because no one can see. He turns around and crosses his arms. “What?”

 

“What the hell are we supposed to do with that?” Derek casts his arm in the direction of Kali's body but keeps his eyes trained on Chris' face.

 

“Clean. It up. You've had plenty of practice.” He leaves Derek with that, and after briefly checking on Allison, goes back out into the gathering twilight.

 

He's walking to the bike when he hears quick footsteps behind him. He knows without looking that it's Stiles. When he gets to the Indian he turns and leans against the seat and waits for him to catch up. The kid eyes him warily for a few minutes, his hands twitching at his sides. Then he asks, bullet quick and sharp, “What are you doing, Mr. Argent?”

 

Chris raises an eyebrow. “Well, I _was_ planning on starting the bike up and leaving. I thought that was pretty obvious.”

 

Stiles' eyebrows furrow in irritated concentration and his mouth purses. “Did you kill Peter?”

 

Chris barks out a laugh at that, because God, wouldn't that be so much easier? “No.”

 

“But you do know where he is, don't you? That's why you killed her. Because you want us to think one thing, and she was going to tell us another.”

 

Chris fishes in his pockets for his keys, the movement loose and easy from long practice. He'd known if anyone would figure it out, it would be this kid. Somewhere in hell Gerard is shaking his fist and cursing that he never got the chance to sink his claws into him. Chris straddles the seat and starts the bike. “I _killed_ her because she was too dangerous to keep and we couldn't let her go. What? Did you think we were somehow going to rehabilitate her?” He snorts. “I'll see you tomorrow, kid.”

 

“Look, come on!” Stiles grabs Chris' shoulder, like he can stop him from taking off. It's a bold move from a kid who almost pissed himself the first time Chris slammed him into a wall. But Stiles is never as afraid as his physical reactions lead people to believe. It's a strategy, Chris thinks. An unconscious one for now, but eventually Stiles will figure it out and use it to his advantage. He's too smart to not.

 

Stiles starts again. “Look, I don't give a shit about Peter. I wish you would kill him. I just need to know you're not doing something that's going to get _us_ killed.”

 

Another laugh escapes Chris, this one a bit more bitter. “You ought to give a shit about Peter, since he's one of the reasons this ragtag army has survived.” Stiles jumps at Chris' repeat of his profanity, and it's a thing Chris finds hilarious: that after everything, the kid still expects some level of decorum from adults. Instead of pointing out the clear disconnect, Chris sighs.

 

“Anything I do is to keep us alive, Stiles. That's my _daughter_ in there, remember?” He flips up the kickstand. “Now, if you're smart, you'll keep your little delusional _theory_ to yourself.” He stares pointedly at Stiles' hand on his shoulder. Stiles lets go, but then his lips thin out and his face hardens.

 

“Fine. But I swear to God, if you do something that gets Is -” He cuts off abruptly and takes a quick step back. And God, the kid has potential, but he's got a damn long way to go, especially as far as poker faces go. Chris lets his smile stretch out, all predation and teeth.

 

“It's cute, really, that you think I didn't already know. You're not stupid, kid, so don't make the mistake of thinking I'm as clueless as your little friends in there. But here, let me finish that sentence for you. If I do something that gets Isaac hurt, you'll kill me. I get that right?” Scott might be willing to die for Allison, but Stiles would kill for Isaac.

 

Stiles nods warily. His eyes are hard and cautious, like he's waiting for Chris to mock him. The fervor in Stiles' face doesn't amuse him though. It just makes him feel weary, and like he's too fucking old to be looking through this kind of mirror.

 

“ _I won't let him touch you. I'll fucking kill him first. I swear_. _” He grabs Peter's hand and presses it to the tattoo on his back. “I_ swear. _”_

 

“I think you'd definitely try, kid.” Stiles starts, and Chris wonders exactly how long he's been sitting silent, studying him. He flips up the kickstand and pulls the helmet of the handle bars. “Get some sleep, Stiles.”

 

“Wait!” Stiles grabs for his arm again, but this time Chris shifts so he only catches empty air. “You won't say anything, right? About...”

 

Christ, save him from teenagers. “I'm not going to say anything.” He revs the engine. “But those kind of secrets breed bad, kid.”

 

He releases the clutch and takes off to the sound of Stiles hissing “Says the pot to the kettle!” Chris pretends he doesn't hear, but he makes an unscheduled stop for a bottle of scotch before continuing to the woods.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Young!Peter uses the term "lame" in this chapter.

 

Peter does not bother to clean up the signs of his search. There was nothing to find, anyway, and maybe the fact that Peter has done it will piss Chris off enough that he'll lose that carefully preserved facade of calmness. Pushing Chris until his mask shattered and revealed every hungry and scared and _alive_ thing buried inside used to be something Peter prided himself on, the thing that kept Chris from retreating completely into himself under Gerard's carefully brutal methods. No matter the years, Peter can't think either of them have changed so much that tried and true methods won't have similar results.

 

He's wrong. When Chris comes through the door, he doesn't say a thing about the cabinets and drawers left hanging open. He takes a cursory glance around, but doesn't stop until he's in the kitchen. The saddle bag is slung onto the counter and a bottle of Glenfinnan scotch appears from its depths. Chris silently pours two tumblers full and slides one toward where Peter stands, bemused at the opposite end of the counter. Peter swishes the amber liquid around the tumbler before taking an appreciative sip, examining Chris over the rim.

 

He looks exhausted, his entire body tense and drawn, like someone has pulled the strings that bind muscle to bone entirely too tight for a human being to bear. Chris' clothes carry a thin layer of dirt, and there are dark flecks spattered across his shirt and cheekbones. With a sniff and a start, Peter realizes it's _blood_ , and upon closer inspection, the knuckles clenched white around the glass are busted and raw.

 

“Was there a fight?”

 

Chris' Adams apple bobs as he tips his head back and drains his glass, the line of his neck bare and long. He grimaces as he flexes his hand, looks at his knuckles, then pours out another two fingers of scotch.

 

“Something like that.”

 

“But Allison -” the name feels strange around his tongue - “is alright?”

 

The acrid note creeps back into Chris' scent, only slightly less brittle than the sharp, low laugh he barks out. “If you're asking if she'll live, then yes, she's fine. If you're referring to anything else, then no one is fine here. I doubt any of us will ever be _fine_ again.” He angles his body away from Peter then, enough to send a clear signal that he's done talking, but not so much that he can't still see Peter from the corner of his eye. There's no sound but the chink of the glass against glass as Chris pours a third drink. This one he barely sips, though, spending more time staring into it than bringing it to his lips. Finally he walks to the sink and pours it over his knuckles instead. It has to sting like a bitch, but Chris doesn't flinch or curse or show any sign he's hurt at all.

 

“Christ, Christopher,” Peter says finally, “what happened to you?”

 

Chris' shoulders hunch as he slams his tumbler to the counter, his head lowered and the veins of his neck standing stark. “What happened to me? What _happened_ to me? My sister had her throat ripped out by a werewolf while my daughter was forced to watch. My _wife_ was bitten and chose to kill herself rather than turn. And my _father-”_ the word is spit out with more vitriol than any of the profanity Chris has used - “manipulated and twisted my child before using her life as a bargaining chip. Is that enough, do you think, to justify _what has happened to me_?”

 

“My God,” Peter breathes, as the pieces start falling into place. “You killed him.”

 

“Yes.” There's grim satisfaction in that one word, but Peter doesn't miss the sour note of guilt that creeps in as well. Peter toys with his glass before asking his next question.

 

“Have you talked to anyone about it?

 

Another sharp laugh, and Peter wouldn't have thought it was possible, but the muscles in Chris' shoulders draw even tighter. “Who should I have talked to? Allison? She's busy with her own grief. Not her job to bear mine. Or maybe I should have talked to your nephew?” There's such scorn in Chris' voice that, had Derek been there at that moment, Peter wouldn't have been surprised to see him stagger back from the sheer force of it. What kind of man had his nephew become?

 

“Derek's not capable of taking care of anything. There's no one _left_.” _I'm alone_.

 

Peter moves without much conscious thought, because Chris sounds bruised and hollow and frozen, and all the things he was _never_ supposed to be. His hand is inches from Chris' shoulder when Chris' bites out a low -

 

“Don't.”

 

He doesn't stop. He curves his hand around Chris' shoulder and hears the fierce pounding of his heart redouble.

 

“Peter, don't.” But Chris doesn't move away or do anything else to stop him, and Peter slides his hand from Chris' shoulder, down his arm. Feels the muscles tremble under his palm and rests his hand over Chris' on the counter top.

 

“Let me help you, Christopher.”

 

Glass creaks under the pressure of Chris' fingers and Peter reaches around with his free hand and pries the tumbler away before it shatters into pieces. He sets it to the side, then steps closer, letting go of his loose hold to press one hand flat over Chris' chest and one over his abdomen.

 

“ _Don't_.” It's pleading, and Peter recognizes all the notes it carries, all the conflicted, confused, scared impulses Chris hides. _Don't do this. Don't make me show weakness. Don't make me vulnerable...Please do this. Please push me. Please_ let _me be vulnerable._ This is Chris running from Gerard. This is Chris with his knees pressed to his chest in the dark, flinching away from simple touch. This is Chris begging for someone, anyone – _Peter –_ to find him in the fog. To be the thing he can trust to pull him back from the ledge.

 

This is a footpath they've long worn down from constant use.

 

“I know you, Christopher -”

 

“- _No_ , you _don't_ -”

 

“- I _know_ you. You don't let this out, it's going eat you up. Going to burn you from the inside out and drive you _insane_. Let me _help_ you, Christopher. _Please_.”

 

Chris smells like whiskey and fury and desperation and fear and the silence stretches out far too long to be anything close to comfortable. Peter waits it out. Doesn't move or fidget. Refrains from the urge to bury his face in Chris' neck and breath deep and find his own ground. It's been so _long_. Finally, Chris lets out a small, gusting sigh, and all the fight leaves him. The strings that have been holding him so tight snap with such suddenness that Peter can almost hear the metaphorical _twang_ as they whip away, and Chris sags, goes lax and limp against Peter.

 

“Good...good,” Peter murmurs, mainly to himself. He recaptures Chris' hand and leads him to the bedroom. Chris follows wordlessly, offers no resistance.

 

***********

 

They're laying on top of the bedspread, fully clothed, although Peter had made Chris take off his shoes. They're caked with God knows what – something that smells strongly of iron in any case – and Peter draws the line at that being in the place he's sleeping. He's curled behind Chris, not quite touching him anywhere, other than the arm around his waist, and Chris isn't moving, is barely breathing, his hands tucked beneath the pillow on which his head rests.

 

Peter doesn't close the space between them. Doesn't press his mouth to the back of Chris' neck like he would have at one time. Because he doesn't know the rules here. Doesn't know what's okay, and what is not. And he hates it. Hates that Chris knows the boundaries and he does not. Hates that he's missing all the memories that apparently define the terms of their relationship. Sometimes Chris looks at him, and Peter _knows_ he hates him. Other times...other times he catches Chris watching him and he knows that hatred is the farthest thing from the truth.

 

Chris makes a soft, hiccuping sound, then something more closely related to a sob. Suddenly, and without warning, his hand shoots down and grips hard at Peter's upper arm, nails digging so deeply into the ink of his tattoo that Peter hisses in pain before his body adjusts. Chris jerks at the sound and his body tenses – in preparation to flee, Peter thinks – and Peter surges forward, tightens his grip around Chris' waist, and covers Chris' hand with his own.

 

“It's okay. You're safe.”

 

Hysterical laughter rocks Chris', but Peter doesn't let go, and he doesn't move. The laughter gradually fades away, replaced by another hitched sound, and then another, and then Chris' entire body is shaking and the smell of salt and water fills the air.

 

Peter murmurs nonsensical things. _That's it...that's okay....shhh...it's okay to let go, Christopher_ , and ignores the fact Chris is gripping his arm so tightly that blood is welling up around his nails. He'll heal, and so will Chris. This is what they _do._ Or what they did. Something they ingrained deep enough that it still _works_.

 

Sobs wrack Chris for a long time, long enough for the burn in Peter's arm to develop into a pulsing ache as his body attempts to heal over and over again. It triggers some random recollection he can't place. Sitting in a chair. No, _stuck_ in a chair, that same pulsing ache the only thing he's aware of; the only thing he can feel. He pushes the memory away to deal with at a later time, presses his forehead against the top of Chris' spine, and inhales to take in the fluctuating scent of Chris' grief.

 

It slowly changes. Becomes cleaner - less muddled and sulfur tinged. Corresponds with the gradual calming of Chris' heartbeat and the longer silences between sobs. Peter's heart rate calms in tandem, and the room tapers off into stillness. It's another minute, or ten, before Chris' body goes limp with sleep, snuffling, hiccuping breaths following him into slumber. His fingers relax, held in place only by Peter's hand on top of them, and the tingle in his skin lets Peter know the wounds he's caused have seamlessly healed.

 

Peter should move back now that his goal has been accomplished, now that he's done what was needed. Should give Chris room and space and plausible denial. Whatever rules and boundaries there are, he's fairly certain they don't include _this_.

 

But he stays, bends his knees up so they fit exactly into the crook left by Chris' legs, and counts the beats of Chris' heart until he falls asleep.

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

Chris is aware this is a dream. The memories are too sharp and the colors too bright, but just because it's a dream doesn't mean the memories aren't _true_ , or that he can do one single damn thing to change them.

 

He and Peter are standing in front of a mirror at the _Ink Pit_ , gangly and thin limbed, bodies just beginning to hint at the corded muscles they'll develop with age. He's twisted around, admiring the black _Indissolutus_ inked in a vertical line up his ribs; beside him, Peter has his arm curled over his head, doing the same with the _indomitosque_ tattooed on the soft inner skin of his upper arm. They're eyes meet in the mirror and Chris grins fiercely at Peter, who returns it with an added smirk. Because, Peter.

 

“I _told_ you it would be rad,” he crows triumphantly. Peter rolls his eyes but can't keep the pleased satisfaction off his face.

 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. So you get to be right for _once_.” Peter fingers the lettering again, then bites his lip as he smiles. “It is pretty wicked, isn't it?”

 

“ _Totally_.” His grin fades as he sobers. “Unbroken and _safe_.” He puts extra emphasis on the last word, on the additional meaning his tattoo carries. It's important Peter always knows that. “Nothing's gonna break us, right? You and me, kicking ass forever.”

 

Peter half grins and nods. “Screw 'em.”

 

Chris steps closer, grabbing Peter's wrist so he can turn his arm out to get a better look at the new tattoo. “Yours turned our really good, didn't it? Do you think you're seriously gonna have to do that whole blowtorch thing because it looks really stable like it --” He runs a finger down the lettering and then breaks off abruptly when Peter hisses and flinches back.

 

“Shit, sorry,” he apologizes immediately and lets go. “Thought it was already healed. Did I hurt you?” Fuck, he never wants to hurt Peter.

 

Peter shakes his head, his head down and his eyes glued to the art board behind Chris. “No, it _is_ healed. It's fine. It didn't hurt. Just surprised me. It's fine.”

 

He crinkles his nose and narrows his eyes, because Peter's being _weird_. “Petie...”  
  


“Dude! I'm fine!” Peter raises his eyes and smirks. “Werewolf. Kick your ass six ways from Sunday with my hands tied behind my back. It's cool. Look.” He holds his arm out and shakes it, then jams his fingers into the skin. “ _Fine_.”

 

“Then why were you acting all -” Chris is stopped from pursuing his line of questioning by the return of their tattoo artists, who bandage them up and take their money. By the time they leave them alone again, Chris has forgotten he was worried in the first place.

 

He grabs his shirt and pulls it over his head. “Come on, we gotta hurry. I've got a date with Michelle tonight. Dad's letting me use the Buick and you know what that means. Can't let that backseat go to waste.” He nudges Peter with his shoulder, who rolls his eyes and snorts, but jostles him back.

 

“You're so freakin' lame, Christopher. Kind of a pig, too.”

 

“Don't be jealous, Petie. I can't help the girls love me.” He runs into the door frame on the way out, because he's walking backward so he can talk and see Peter at the same time, and he winces as the wood bites into a bruise on his lower back. Stupid fucking Gerard and his stupid fucking training. He's going to have to come up with an excuse for Michelle as to why he has a bruise the size of a fist on the small of his back.

 

“But listen -” he continues, “I already told you. Michelle says Nicole is _totally_ into you. Michelle'll call her up if you want. We could all go out together? Catch that new movie with -”

 

Peter's already shaking his head. “Your double dates blow, Christopher. And Michelle'll get pissed because you're not paying attention. And then I'm stuck listening to you whine for at least a week. I can get my dick sucked on my own, thanks.”

 

“Please. If I didn't make you, you'd never freaking date.” It's completely true, too. Chris is the best wingman in existence, and without him he swears Peter would never even _try_ asking girls out. And it's not because he doesn't have the opportunity, either. “But whatever. Your loss.” He smacks Peter on the arm as he passes, and then wraps his hand around it and lightly squeezes so Peter knows he isn't serious, just screwing with him. He unconsciously presses his palm into Peter's bandage as he goes, then releases him and unlocks the truck, keeping up a steady stream of shit talk as they slide inside and take off.

 

_Fast forward...rewind....snick...pause...._

 

It becomes a habit, absentmindedly reaching out to press a finger or a hand against Peter's tattoo. When they pass in the hall. When they meet up at the dock to swim. When he's chewing on one thumbnail and trying to concentrate on studying for his stupid Latin final. When Peter finds him late one night in the woods, nursing a black eye and curled into a quiet ball.

 

He and Michelle break up. Just like he and Veronica break up. Just like he and Brittney break up. Either they break up with him or he breaks up with them. He really can't remember because it really doesn't matter. They swim in and out of his attempts to defy his father, or win his father's approval, or prove something to somebody that he really doesn't understand yet. The only constant he cares about is Peter, or his little sister Katie, and every morning he counts out the years and months left until he turns eighteen.

 

Peter never comments about Chris' hand on his arm and whatever had bothered him that first time seems to have disappeared.

 

_Fast forward....rewind...snick...pause_

 

Everything comes to a head the week before school starts. The day is sticky hot, air thick enough to taste, and Peter and Chris are dripping sweat by the time they get to the dock. It's a day to be on edge, and Peter is snappy and irritable, in the way he gets when the moon comes full, bitchier than anybody Chris has ever met. Chris' mood isn't much better.

 

Peter hadn't worn shoes, but Chris kicks his off as they both strip out of their shirts in preparation to dive in. Peter stares moodily out at the water, lips turned down in a way Chris hates. He debates between just shoving him into the lake or trying to cajole him out of his bad mood, and finally settles on the latter.

 

“Come on, Petie, snap out of it. School's in three days; it's gonna suck enough as it is without wasting the time before in a shit mood.” Peter makes a face and doesn't answer, but Chris can see his lips twitch. “Seriously, man. I've been stuck for two fucking weeks up at camp commando with Gerard and the Marchants – man, I gotta tell you, they finally inducted their daughter and she is fucking _scary_. Swear to god I wouldn't have been surprised if Vickie'd knifed me in my sleep. Bad _ass._ ”

 

Peter's shoulders inexplicably tighten and Chris makes an angry sound, even as he reaches out a hand. “Petie, _seriously._ I haven't seen you in forever and I just wanna hang out, swim, maybe smoke a bowl if Lee can get us some. That's good, right? We can -”

 

His fingertips barely brush Peter's arm before Peter is rounding on him, swatting his hand away. His face is furious.

 

“ _Stop,_ ” he hisses. “Just _stop it_.”

 

“What the fuck, Peter?” Chris steps forward, only to be met by Peter shoving him in the shoulder, hard enough that Chris is caught off guard, stumbles back, and falls on his ass.

 

“You don't get it. You don't even fucking get it. You have no fucking clue, do you?”

 

Chris eyes him warily from his spot on the dock. He braces himself on his arms, hands flat against the planks, and stays where he is. No matter how unintentional, he's done something to upset Peter, and that bothers him far more than Peter's full moon pissiness.

 

“What exactly don't I get?” He keeps his voice calm and measured, gives Peter something to latch onto and center himself with. Only...this time it just seems to upset him more.

 

“You gotta stop, okay? You can't keep....” He bares his teeth in clear frustration and while they aren't exactly fanged out, they aren't exactly perfectly human, either. “You don't get to keep touching me, okay? You can't keep touching it.” He gestures toward his arm and the tattoo there. _His_ tattoo, Chris idly thinks, for all that it's on Peter's skin. It's for him, just like his is for Peter.

 

“Petie, you're not making any sense. I'm sorry, okay? I didn't know it bothered you.” It hurts, he thinks, more than it should. He knows he sometimes gets too dependent on Peter. Too needy. Puts burdens on him that Chris should be strong enough to take care of on his own. But this is the first time Peter has ever acted like Chris was wrong for it. _Weak,_ his mind supplies, in a voice that sounds strikingly like Gerard's, and Chris starts to stumble over his words.

 

“I'm sorry. I'm _sorry_. I didn't think...I just liked being able to....I didn't _mean_ -”

 

Peter curses and picks up one of Chris' shoes and flings it angrily across the pond. It barely escapes landing in the water, and plops in the soft mud of the shore instead.

 

“ _Hey!”_

 

Peter ignore his outburst. He walks in a circle, shoves his hands through his hair until it's an ungodly mess, then drops to his knees beside Chris.

 

“It doesn't bother me, okay? Just...” He bites on his lip and makes another guttural, frustrated sound.  
“You can't... _this._ ”

 

Everything in Chris' world freezes when Peter reaches behind him and drags his fingers agonizingly slow up the length of Chris' tattoo... _Peter's_ tattoo. His fingertips slide through sweat and across skin and sparks crackle up and down Chris' spine as the feedback loop between his brain and his body fizzles out and dies. He's had this kind of dream before, woken sticky and mortified and shamed that he's so fucked up that his subconscious has to twist the one good thing in his life. That it can't leave his _best friend_ alone. It's only happened recently, and it's easy enough to forget, to let burn off under the heat of the sun. Just one of those weird things your brain does when sleep crosses the wires.

 

But Peter's fingers, on Peter's tattoo, on the word Chris got _for him -_ because their lives are permanently tangled together, because they're each others truest friends, because no one and nothing is ever going to change that, not hunters or werewolves or mores or codes – it feels a lot like _mine_.

 

Chris surges forward and tackles Peter to the dock. Can't get to his mouth fast enough, and when he does he kisses him with no finesse or skill. It's raw, and hungry, and Chris _needs, needs, needs_. Presses his tongue into the wet warmth of Peter's mouth, and _Christ it feels so good please more_. His palm finds Peter's _indomitosque_ and _oh right_ this _is why._ He's hard, and he bites Peter's lip and Peter makes a sound –

 

– And it jars Chris' brain back online and he jerks back with his eyes squeezed shut. Oh God, what has he done? He's fucked everything up, he knows he has. What will he do without Peter, he can't be without Peter. Peter is the only person who--

 

He forces his eyes open and looks down at Peter, still pinned beneath him. His lips are swollen - _I did that –_ and wet and all Chris wants to do is kiss him again. Peter's eyes dart from his mouth to his eyes and as Chris watches, he licks his lips and asks hesitantly,

 

“Christopher?”

 

The words tumble out. “I don't want to be sorry for this. Do I have to be sorry for this? I will be, if you need me to be, but I don't want to be. I don't want to stop touching you.”

 

  
  


“ _Christopher._ Focus.”

 

Chris realizes their hands are still pressed against each other's tattoos, and thinks that maybe, just maybe, this had been what Peter had tried to tell him. Then he's sure of it, as Peter carefully traces two fingers up the ink and grins, wide and exultant and open.

 

“I don't want you to be sorry, either.”

 

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

Chris wakes up.

 

It's the first time in months he hasn't woken up reaching for a weapon or shaking from a nightmare. His thoughts are clearer, more centered than they have been since Kate died, and he knows with gut wrenching awareness exactly whose body heat is pressed against his back. He slides quietly out from underneath the arm slung over his middle.

 

Sits.

 

Breathes.

 

Stands.

 

Faces the wall and breathes again.

 

Looks at his hands and notes the blood underneath the nails of his right one.

 

Breathes one more time.

 

Turns around.

 

Peter is still asleep, but as Chris watches, his brow furrows and his hand reaches out, searching. Chris tentatively stretches his own hand out and strokes his fingers over Peter's forehead, then cards them through his hair. Peter's face smooths out, and he curves his arm around Chris' pillow, dragging it closer to him as he settles back down.

 

Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ He'd had no idea he was still anchoring Peter.

 

 _Christ_.

 

He pads across the floor and pulls a change of clothes from the spares that are kept in the dresser. Puts another set on top for Peter to find.

 

This doesn't have to be a disaster.

 

This doesn't have to be anything at all.

 

Peter has a weakness now. One that can be exploited. And Chris doesn't have to feel ashamed of last night, no matter what Peter might – and will – levy at him once this...episode...is over. He did what a soldier should do. He used what was needed, whatever methods necessary, to continue to be effective in the field. Peter had been right about that, at least. He had been wound too tight, and a soldier that close to breaking, makes mistakes. Endangers the people he's supposed to lead and protect.

 

If he thinks about it in those terms...as long as he frames it in those terms...

 

This doesn't have to be anything at all.

 

_It's okay to let go, Christopher._

 

He stands under a too hot spray of water and scrubs at his skin, lets the blood and filth from yesterday wash down the drain. The mine had been a dead end, and since he hadn't heard from anyone else, he assumes the factories had been fruitless as well. But while they're no closer to finding the alpha pack than yesterday, he can at least hold to the fact the alphas are down one pack member. If they have to, they'll pick them off one by one.

 

Once Peter is recovered, he'll have someone else to look over the work. To see the connections he might have missed. All he needs is for Peter to _recover_.

 

 _Maybe_ , a traitorous little voice whispers, _he won't get them back. Maybe his memories are gone for good. Maybe this Peter is the only Peter left._ _Maybe you can_ keep _him._

 

The voice is ruthlessly silenced as he steps out of the shower and dresses.

 

_This is not my Peter. My Peter is dead._

 

He grabs the notepad and pencil as he crosses back over to the bedroom. Peter is still asleep when he gets there, two days growth of beard shadowing his jaw.

 

 _Razor_ ; Chris makes a mental note as tears the top sheet from the notepad and stuffs it in his pocket. He scrawls one word across the next page – _Groceries_ – then props it on the nightstand next to the bed. He hesitates for another moment before reaching back out and pressing his fingers against the ink standing stark and black against the pale of Peter's arm.

 

Then he steps back, scoops his boots up, and walks out into the cool morning air.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, it only took a year to write seven measly chapters. But it is, at long last, finished. If you haven't had a chance, you can check out the fanmix for this series, _Crossfire_ , also located on AO3. It will give you some glimpses into the future of this series. (Be aware the d/l no longer works because of Mediafire's new dickishness).

 

Peter wakes up in an empty bed, with his face buried in a pillow that smells of Chris. There's a five second gap between sleep and full consciousness that he quietly panics, hears no noise in the house, and thinks Chris has stormed away. Then he sees the note on the side table and relaxes back down with a tiny, exhaled breath.

 

Thank God. Real food. If he has to subsist one more day on crackers and freezer burnt grilled cheese, he might just snap and kill someone. He's not made for Wal-mart brand sustenance, and he shudders delicately when he thinks about the five tins of spam he'd found shoved in the corner cabinet. Obviously Chris needs a keeper.

 

He luxuriates in the bed a minute more. Stretches and arches his back and scrubs his head into the pillow. He feels good. _Rested_. Whatever he's been up to for the last few years hasn't included much sleep, although he hadn't realized exactly how exhausted he'd been until just now. Until he'd actually gotten a full night's rest. He's not delusional enough to think it's unconnected to having Chris in his bed.

 

He sets his feet on the floor and finds the change of clothes set carefully out on the surface of the dresser. They're soft and worn and frayed, and even though they've been in a drawer for a long time, it's not so long that the scent of their previous owner can entirely disappear. These were Chris' clothes.

 

He tucks them under his arm and pads his way to the bathroom. A shower seems called for when changing clothes, especially as he has no way of knowing how long it's been since his last. From the hint of warmth still lingering in the tiny room, Chris was apparently of the same opinion. Peter strips to the thought of Chris doing the same. To Chris peeling off his shirt and shoving his jeans off his hips. Letting his underwear fall to the floor.

 

When he's fully nude, Peter carefully peels the bandage from his neck, hissing a bit as the tape pulls unpleasantly against his skin. He twists and turns in front of the mirror, finally finding a position that affords him a glimpse.

 

The skin is smooth. Unbroken and whole, without a trace of claw marks left. He's healed.

 

He's healed and he still doesn't remember a damn thing.

 

And he doesn't want to.

 

He doesn't want to know. Not anymore. He can feel it, just on the edge of his vision. Something huge and black and waiting. And he doesn't _want_ it. He doesn't want to know what lies between then and now and Chris. He doesn't want to know what has happened to make Chris fight so hard against what he should be taking freely.

 

Maybe if he never remembers, Chris will forget, too.

 

He drops the bandage in the trash and yanks open the shower curtain. Chris' scent slams into him, catches him low in the gut. It's so strong - the water droplets still sliding down the wall evidence to how short a time it's been since Chris stood here - that Peter almost stumbles. He clutches at the curtain and breathes deep, already half hard.

 

It just gets worse when he steps inside and starts up the water. Billowing steam concentrates the smell, intensifies it in the enclosed space, and it's all too easy to picture Chris here, water sluicing over him as he tips his head back into the spray. See him reaching for the cheap, store brand shampoo. Using the generic bar of soap to lather suds across his body. It's still damp from use, and Peter slides his fingers over the surface, his eyes fluttering closed.

 

He's seen this new Chris shirtless. Seen how age has fulfilled the promise of his teenaged body. Felt the flex of his muscles under his fingers and the way his throat had tilted and bared in his sleep when he'd finally dropped his armor. Peter's imagination is already filling in the rest, and he doesn't even try to fight it. He breathes in deep, filling his lungs with Chris.

 

The shampoo is cool on his palm, and he braces a hand against the tiles and wets his lips as he wraps his fingers around his dick. A small, barely there whimper slips out as he twists his wrist and thumbs his tip, hips jerking to follow the sensation. He wishes he had woken a few minutes earlier. Followed the trail of Chris' scent to this room. Opened the shower curtain to find Chris naked and wet.

 

Peter tightens his grip. Strips himself rough and quick as he draws his bottom lip between his teeth.

 

What would Chris have done? Shouted? Turned him out? Cracked open and finally released all that anger and hatred he's harboring? Or would it have been the other Chris, the one from last night - the one that had trembled and fought and then clutched at Peter in needy desperation. Would he have let Peter press him against the tiles, so that Peter would have had room to drop to his knees and take Chris in his mouth? Would he have curled down around Peter, buried his hands in his hair like when they were young, and let his name fall from his lips like the best church litany Peter has ever heard?

 

Peter rests his forehead against the tile, rolling his balls in one hand while his other draws hard on his cock. His abdomen tightens, a hollow, aching need, and all he has to do is think of Chris' face when he comes, how age and time might have changed that too, and he's spilling over his fingers, gasping out shocky breaths of air as he lets his weight collapse against the shower wall.

 

He waits for his heart rate to slow to normal, sluggish and relaxed from his place on the tile, then washes up at a leisurely speed. Chris will be back soon, and then Peter will initiate his 8-point plan to pulverize Chris' walls to dust. It should really only take until step three – he _is_ just that good. Until then, though, there's not much to do but wait. Maybe go back to sleep. A yawn escapes as he towels off and dresses in Chris' clothes, and he turns his face unabashedly into the sleeve and inhales deeply. He doesn't _care_ what's missing in his memories. If the past hasn't overridden _this_ , then the past is not important at all.

 

He's heading back to the bedroom, feeling better than he has in the entire two days since he'd woken up on the floor of the woods, when something in the kitchen catches his eyes.

 

Chris' saddlebag.

 

He's standing over it before he clearly thinks it through, hand on the buckle. It's the one thing he hasn't seen. The one thing Chris makes sure to never leave behind. Except for this morning. This morning, Chris had made a mistake.

 

Peter's brain screams at him to walk away. Walk away _now_. The black pit of bad is still waiting, just around the corner, and whatever is in here...It's something he knows he doesn't want.

 

Except of course he does. Because now that it's here, in his hands...he _has_ to know. Has to satisfy the reborn itch of his curiosity, regardless of the consequences. His need to know had always been the thing that damned him. 

 

His decision hangs in the balance for only a moment. Only for the space of half a dozen breaths.

 

He undoes the buckle and opens the flap.

 

There's no smoking gun. Metaphorically, of course – theremost definitely _is_ a handgun inside - Sig Sauer something or the other, at least according to the brand stamped along the butt. Peter's never had any use for guns, so after making sure the safety is on – he's not an _idiot_ – he sets it aside. Two extra clips, with bullets that smell of wolfsbane, join the gun, followed by two boxes of ammunition.

 

Chris is nothing if not prepared, and this doesn't even account for the other gun he carries or the knife with which Peter has had a personal vis-a-vis. Peter is willing to bet those are only the ones he's _seen_. It's a reminder of Chris' profession ( _calling_ ), and just a little bit hot, but also nothing out of the ordinary.

 

Peter's heart slows to a more reasonable pace. He's gotten worked up about nothing, and this, then, is now just a chance to learn more about Chris. There's a deck of playing cards, bound with a rubber band and well worn at the edges. A black knit cap and a pair of black leather gloves. Peter runs his fingers over the weave and gets distracted by a very vivid picture of the things Chris could do while wearing those gloves. He shivers and shakes himself out of it, then sets them aside to pull out a tattered map.

 

It's a map of Beacon Hills. He spreads it out across the counter, the creased and worn folds evidence to its repetitive use and Peter imagines Chris hunched over it for countless hours, tracing the roads and topography as he plots and plans. There are red circles and X's scattered across it, along with five or six question marks along some of the outlying roads. He runs his fingers along the paths connecting them, idly wondering what Chris is trying to figure out, then stops abruptly with his finger pressing a point nowhere near any of Chris' marks.

 

_Here_.

 

He doesn't know _what_ is here, or _why_ here is here, he just knows it _is_. He grabs the pencil and circles it, then scrawls _Christopher, it's here_ along the top of his mark. Feeling accomplished and a little less useless, he hastily folds the map and sets it on the pile of discarded items.

 

He digs back into the saddlebag and finds that the only thing left is a small notebook, the kind that can fit in a front shirt pocket and flips from the top. It fits Chris, Peter thinks, to eschew every bit of modern technology and still carry his notes in handwritten form. The notebook smells old and musty, in a way none of the other contents had, and Peter guesses it hasn't been used in a long time. Its pages are full, and mainly unintelligible – Chris uses some kind of code that Peter isn't bored enough to try to decipher - and Peter assumes it was filled and used, then cast off and forgotten.

 

Nonetheless, he flips casually through it, only half paying attention to the contents while he tries to puzzle through the mystery of the map, and it's only when he comes to the last page that his focus snaps back to what he's actually seeing. There's a strange buzzing in his ears and he battles the sudden rise of an inexplicable fight or flight instinct in order to read what Chris has written.

 

It's a list of names, each with an angry pen stroke through it.

 

Garrison Myers

 

Michael Reddick

 

Sarah Unger

 

Adrian Harris

 

And the last, crossed out with a pen that somehow seemed angrier than all the other -

 

_Kate Argent_

 

\--Kate

 

Argent--

 

A switch flips and the whole world changes.

 

His memories return, not as a slow trickle, but suddenly and all at once. One minute absent and the next minute fully _there_ , and with such force that he's left hunched over the cabinet, digging holes in its surface with his claws.

 

When he can breathe again, he slowly straightens to his full height and a small, cold smile plays on his lips.

 

“Well. Someone's been a very naughty boy.”

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Chris is debating between two brands of maple smoked bacon when he hears a tentative “Mr. Argent?” He looks up from the packages balanced on his palms to see Scott standing across the aisle, clutching a bottle of orange juice to his chest and looking bewildered.

 

“Scott.” He has no clue what Scott's issue is; he's showered so he can't possibly smell Peter on him, and last time Chris checked, his socks matched, he had shoes on, and his zipper is firmly in the “up” position. “Can I help you?”

 

“Are you...are you okay, Mr. Argent?”

 

“Other than the pack of alphas circling our doorstep? Perfectly fine.” He throws one of the packages into the cart (organic – Peter will bitch less) and quirks an eyebrow. “Why?”

 

“Just...um...you were staring at bacon and smiling?”

 

Chris eyes him suspiciously before grabbing a kielbasa and adding it to the small pile in his cart. “My daughter lived through another round of Derek's stupidity, and Kali is dead. Of course I'm smiling.”

 

Scott shakes his head emphatically. “No, it's not that one. It's...” Scott brightens, hitting upon the word he's looking for. “You look _happy_. And you were humming. You don't really _do_ happy. Not since...” He trails off, expression morphing back to distinctly uncomfortable.

 

The _since your wife died_ screams so loud in the silence that Scott may as well have said it out loud. Chris resists the urge to put his hand to his face to feel if Scott is telling the truth. “I don't hum,” he finally says.

 

“Right,” Scott says warily. “Um, okay. Well, Derek took care of, you know, that _thing._ And we didn't find anything, which I guess you already know because we'd be out _doing_ something instead of grocery shopping. So, yeah, that's about it. I gotta...” he drops the juice in his basket and vaguely waves at the contents (skittles, tampons, salt and vinegar potato chips), “...you know, Allison,” He finishes by way of explanation. He turns to go then stops, and Chris can actually _see_ him squaring his shoulders before he spins back around. Chris folds his arms and waits for it.

 

“You should be happy more often, Mr. Argent. I know things are kind of crappy right now, but you should. Then maybe Allison wouldn't feel like she'd lost _both_ her parents.” He nods to himself and walks away, before Chris can even think to respond.

 

He stands in the aisle for a very long time, until a blue haired lady impatiently clears her throat and he moves aside with a murmured apology. Chris finishes the rest of the shopping mechanically. He does not smile, and he does not hum, and he definitely does not think about the reasons he might have earlier been doing both.

 

In the end, he thinks he probably should have spent those last few minutes happy.

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

Chris knows the minute he walks through the door, the atmosphere of the room twisting and crackling like the few seconds before lightening strikes. Peter is sitting on the couch, legs casually crossed and a tumbler of scotch hanging from one hand, and Chris doesn't stop as he makes his way to the counter and starts unpacking the groceries.

 

“Feeling better I see?”

 

Peter smiles, sly and quick. “Hmm. I guess you could say I'm feeling _whole_ again.”

 

“Funny. And here I was thinking you looked more broken than ever.”

 

Peter shrugs carelessly. “Potato, Po-tah-toe.” He throws back the glass of scotch and sets the empty tumbler carefully on the arm of the couch. “Was it funny?” he asks mildly, a curious tilt to his head that doesn't fool Chris one tiny bit. “Having me here like that? Watching poor, befuddled Petie, still thinking he was in love with his Christopher? Wanting to _protect_ him? Was it amusing? Did you laugh? Those moments you weren't with me? I mean, I know _I_ would.”

 

The bread is smashed from the milk rolling over it. Chris sets it to the side and puts the milk in the refrigerator. He plants his hands on the counter and looks Peter dead in the face. “Like you said, you know me. So you know it wasn't about that.” The only person Chris had laughed at was his own, stupid self. Fucking _stupid_.

 

“What then? Sympathy for an old lover? Sentimental of you, Argent. Especially seeing as how you stood by while your family torched mine to the ground. Oh, I know, I know, you didn't _know_. But really, Chris, you had to at least suspect. I would be so disappointed in you, otherwise.” He stands, a smooth, sinuous move. “But I do like the way you spun it all. Quite clever. And of course, I was _so_ ready to believe you.” Something bitter crosses his face, then is rapidly replaced by a coldness that makes Chris want to shiver, a frigid mask that is lined with barely visible fury. 

 

“It was strategy,” Chris says plainly. Truthfully for the most part. If he doesn't examine the subconscious impulses, he can pretend they weren't real. “I-- _We_ need your skills, so I need you alive. Taking you back like that...no memory, no defenses...Derek would have killed you before the day was over. And we can't afford his stupidity in this war.” His voice is cold, appropriate for the mercenary nature of his choice. “I told you to stop, Peter. That you didn't listen...that you _never_ listen...that's on your head.”

 

Peter's smile is slight. Humorless. “Such a good little soldier boy, Chris. Daddy would be so _proud_ of you.” He takes several gliding steps forward, his irises yellowed at the edges as his smile turns sadistic and cruel. “But still with the fatal flaw.” He looks the most inhuman, the most wolf-like since Chris found him stumbling about in the forest, his lips rolled up to expose sharpening canines.

 

Chris can see it though, now that he's looking, now that he's not spending all his energy convincing himself otherwise. Can see Peter peeking around the edges of the monster Kate created. And for a minute he's arrested by it, completely unable to come to terms with the meeting of past and present, of his Peter and this Peter overlaid and translucent. He'd fastened all his armor to the return of that monster, and now it's clattering to the floor about him.

 

“You should have taken me to Derek. It's not like you to make stupid mistakes.” Peter is stalking him, always between Chris and the door, blocking the easiest avenue of escape. “Because if no one knows I'm here, no one can blame me when you turn up dead. You know, alphas and all.” He's inches from Chris now, rounding the table, and his fangs are long and his eyes are yellow and his claws make screeching sounds along the counter.

 

“One...less...Argent to pollute the air.” Chris knows he wants him to cower, to cover over the vulnerability of the last few days, to destroy the only person who had seen it. But Peter _does_ know him, so he shouldn't be surprised when Chris doesn't flinch, not even when Peter stops in front of him, toe to toe, and grips Chris's jaw in his hand, fingers digging into the flesh deep enough that bruises are inevitable.

 

“I'm going to tear your throat out. You and Kate can be a matched pair.”

 

Chris returns the favor, wrapping his own hand around the top of Peter's throat, staring him down. And he hadn't known, not until that moment, exactly which way this was going to go, but the second he touches Peter he accepts the inevitability. “For once in your life, Peter, shut up.” A hand that is used to threaten can also be used to move, and Chris jerks Peter to him, violently slamming their mouths together.

 

It's neither soft, nor romantic, but it's _good_ , and Peter doesn't miss a beat in kissing him back, his hand still pressing bruises into Chris' jaw as they grapple for purchase against the floor, or the counter, or the table, against who will gain dominance in the kiss. Chris' tongue is carving out a space in Peter's mouth, tasting darkness and scotch and a boy with a fondness for pumpkin lattes, while Peter's fangs retract only enough that he won't pierce straight through Chris's mouth, but are still long enough to cut. Chris tastes the hint of his own blood as he shoves Peter hard against the counter space and slots his leg between his.

 

“Used to bring you off just like this, remember?” he mutters into Peter's jaw, bites a line to the soft underside of his chin and leaves indentations to mark his passing. “Bet I still can.” Peter's ass fits perfect in his palms, and he heaves him higher as he ruts into his hip.

 

Peter snarls, shreds the back of his shirt, then spins them so fast Chris' back hits the counter with bruising force. “I seem to remember you never being far behind.” He grips Chris' face, yanking his mouth back to his, and kisses him with brutal intent.

 

It's a battle. A war. And Chris isn't sure who exactly they're fighting as they struggle for control almost as hard as they struggle to get closer, to press deeper into each other. Chris shoves them into the table, knocks over chairs as he pushes Peter's thighs wider, gets a hand under his shirt to leave red lines across his belly. At some point the butt of his gun digs into Peter's ribs and he bites Chris' ear in sharp retaliation.

 

“Take it _off,_ Christopher,” he hisses, and Chris complies without a thought.

 

They're half dressed and half mad, and they're back against the counter when Chris finally gets Peter's zipper undone and his hand down his pants. He cries out and drops his forehead to Chris shoulder, his breath panting warm and damp through the fabric of Chris' shirt. And Chris--

 

– Chris hasn't felt this alive in months, maybe years, and it only gets better when Peter finally stops fighting for control and instead just wedges a hand beneath Chris waistband and gets an awkward grip around him. Everything softens around the edges, dangerously so, and Chris can't find it in himself to do anything more than cup the back of Peter's neck with his free hand and roll his hips in time with his.

 

Just like when they were kids, Peter comes first, with scrabbling hands and lips and tongue. And just like when they were kids, he twists his wrist and bites at Chris' mouth, and Chris goes tumbling after him.

 

For a moment they still, panting against each other, and then Peter shoves harshly away. He holds Chris' stare as he tucks himself back into his pants and wipes his fingers carelessly on the fabric, his expression closed and unreadable. Chris, who hadn't had the luxury of undone trousers, rests heavily against the counter top and stares back, ignoring the discomfort as the wetness sets in. He knows better than to look away from a wild animal.

 

Another moment, and then Peter turns on his heels and saunters unhurriedly toward the door, hooking a finger in the collar of his jacket where it lays across the arm of the couch and throwing it over his shoulder. Chris thinks one of them should say something, but really, what is there to say? Except Peter pauses at the threshold. Looks over his shoulder with a sly, calculating expression.

 

“You really believe Derek still wants to kill me?”

 

Chris clears his throat. “Yes.” How could Peter have missed that?

 

“Hmm. Now personally, I placed bets on him still being too cowardly for that, but I suppose you _are_ the soldier.” A small smile plays on his lips and he looks almost _gleeful_ as he continues. “I'll have to take that into account next time.”

 

The way he says it, the way his eyes never leave Chris' face, catches his attention, just as much as Peter had obviously intended. He slowly straightens. “What do you mean “next time”?”

 

“For all your skill, Christopher, you're not quite as clever as you think. You got it wrong.” Peter has the look of a poker player, laying down four aces and scraping up the winnings. “I didn't escape. They let me go.”

 

Something clenches in the pit of his stomach. “You're lying. Your _neck_.” Bile rises in his throat when Peter grins, wide and beatific, and leans against the door frame.

 

“It was a good touch, don't you think? My contribution to the plan. Otherwise our merry band of idiots might suspect. The alpha pack? Regrettably not very imaginative. I was personally disappointed.” He picks an imaginary piece of lint off his sleeve. “I mean, it should have been obvious I had to have _some_ sort of injury, and no one in their right _mind_ would willingly give an alpha their neck. Luckily for me...” He trails off meaningfully.

 

“ _What did you do?”_ Chris is belatedly reaching for his gun, only to remember it's halfway across the room.

 

“It was a very simple trade, of course. My life, and the promise of Derek's blood in my _mouth_. All for the very tiny price of your safe house location.”

 

Fury snaps and twists inside Chris, made worse by the openly smug and triumphant look on Peter's face; he's getting off on it, maybe as much as Chris got him off bare minutes before. Likely _why_ he's getting off on it – Peter never did go for the obvious kill. Chris lunges across the room and slams Peter's head against the door frame, his hand wrapping tight around his throat and fingers pressing deep into his neck. And Peter just lets him, eyes laughing and victorious.

 

“I'm going to kill you. If no one knows you're here, no one can blame me when you turn up dead. You know, alphas and all.” He throws Peter's words back at him in a low, measured voice, tangentially aware his fingers are pressing Peter's own seed back into his skin. Peter's only response is to roll his eyes and speak around the hand bruising into his windpipe. Even raspy and strangled, his voice manages to still sound unconcerned.

 

“Please, Christopher -”

 

“ _Don't call me that.”_

 

Peter rolls right over his protest. “-stow the dramatics. You _really_ don't have a flair for them. And come on, I had to give them _something_. For the greater good.”

 

“Your own _skin_.” He shakes his hand a little, knocking Peter's head against the frame again. Peter, who, inexplicably, still isn't fighting back. Stupid and foolish and not like him at all, but Chris doesn't let that fact distract him.

 

“Oh, definitely,” Peter drawls. “But it also let me walk out of their safehouse. With its _location._ ”

 

Chris starts, his grip loosening minutely. “Liar.” He can hear the doubt in his own voice.

 

“Oh, it's true. Take a look at your little map.” He nods over Chris shoulder, to where his saddlebag is sitting neatly on the floor. His saddlebag that he had, this morning in his haste, inadvertently left behind on the _counter_. Ah. “I left you a note and everything. Really, Christopher, I'm hurt. I know what side I'm on.”

 

“Uh huh.” He narrows his eyes at Peter for a long moment before letting him go with a small push and walking backwards to kneel at the bag. Peter doesn't try to get away as he unbuckles it and rummages around in its contents, just props himself more comfortably against the door frame and rubs at the fading red marks on his neck. Chris grabs the gun first, clicks off the safety, and aims it at Peter. Who rolls his eyes again, even more deeply.

 

“The map, Chris. I'm getting bored.”

 

“You could be getting dead,” Chris replies pleasantly.

 

“Your bedroom manners are appalling.”

 

“Your face is appalling,” Chris mutters childishly, as he retrieves the map and shakes it open. Sees the added _Christopher, it's here._ The equivocal confirmation of Peter's story doesn't cause his fury to abate; if anything, it doubles. He surges to his feet and speaks through clenched teeth.

 

“You risked _everything_. Our lives. My _daughter_ -”

 

“I knew you'd be smart enough to move them as soon as I turned up missing. And you did, didn't you?”

 

Chris nods reluctantly.

 

“See, Argent? I cross my t's and dot my i's. I counted on everything. Except you deciding I needed _protection_.” He looks Chris up and down, a speculative gleam in his eyes. “Interesting.”

 

Chris can still feel Peter's palms on him, can still feel Peter's lips bruising his neck as he jerked and shuddered and came in Chris' hand, can still feel the unwelcome rightness of Peter's fingers wrapped around him. He swallows it down and raises an eyebrow at Peter.

 

“Almost as interesting as the fact I'm still your anchor.”

 

For a split second Peter's face goes blank, long enough for Chris to know he'd been right. Then Peter shrugs one shoulder, a small, deprecating smile firmly in place. “Well, what can you do?” he says, with a lightness that's betrayed by the tick in his jaw. “Biology's a bitch, isn't it? Can make a man do all sorts of unexpected things. Can even make a man find comfort and peace in the arms of a _monster_. Like you said, Chris – _interesting._ ”

 

They stare at each other for a long moment, wordless and expressionless. It's Peter who looks away first. “Now,” he says, slipping on his jacket and taking a step backwards across the threshold, “if you'll excuse me, I'm going home to shower and change. You can meet me there in an hour. I'm sure you'll have already formulated our plan of attack, so we'll just have to decide exactly how you managed to heroically rescue me today, and then break the happy news to our ragged little band of soldiers. No harm, no foul.”

 

He stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets and between one blink and the next, he's gone. Chris shimmies out of his jeans and pulls on a clean pair. Stoops to pick up the map. Spreads it out across the table. Grabs a pencil. Begins to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was Peter telling the truth? Was he always planning to double cross the alphas, or did he contrive that part of the story when he realized he had inadvertently given Chris the alphas' location? I'll leave that for you to decide.
> 
> I'm aware the story ends unresolved, but that's how life usually is - most things end messy and incomplete, not tied up with a string and a pretty red bow. Does this interlude change things between Chris and Peter? Does it change any of the challenges and obstacles they would have to face and deal with if they even wanted to try? Will the fact Chris knows he's still anchoring Peter change how Peter copes with things in the future? All good questions to ponder for future things.


End file.
